The Family
by ShootingStar96
Summary: "But for the longest time, they were only rumors. Tall tales and scary stories spoken across the city that grew with every new pair of ears that heard. I never thought I would encounter them, but here I am." AU. More description inside.
1. Chapter 1

**_The Family_**

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><p><em>The strength of a family, like the strength of an army, is in its loyalty to each other. <em>_Other things may change us, but we start and end with family. _

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><p><strong>The Family is the most lethal gang in the country. Tris, known as Six, is the daughter of the leader, and she is the heir of the gang. Six must train the new recruits - one being the criminal, Four - while preparing herself to destroy the man who killed her mother. <strong>

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><p>WARNING! There is violence in this story and strong themes. Proceed with caution. Enjoy!<p>

I do not own anything, just my ideas!

**Chapter 1**

FOUR

The first thing I recognize when I wake up is the smell. Sweat, dust, and sharpened metal. I have spent many hours working in places with this particular smell to make me the best. And what I am the best at is being a criminal. The best one.

Being the best, though, isn't enough. It isn't enough because I do not know where I am, or how I got here.

I look all around me. I lay on a stiff cot, one of ten in a row along a wall. And there are another set of ten on the other wall. A person occupies each cot. No windows, one door. The room can't be any bigger than 300 square feet, and with 19 other people, it feels like I am suffocating.

Breathe, Four, breath... I suck in the sweat and dust and it relaxes my nerves. I rest my head back down and think back to the last thing I remember. Sirens, I remember hearing sirens running along the wind while I was driving off from a... a robbery. A robbery that went wrong. I guess that is what happens when you trust someone with a job you should be doing yourself.

The cops were on my tail, but I was fast. And smart. I had just figured out a route out of the mess when there was a loud _BOOM_; everything went bright, then black. Then I woke up here.

_So what happened?_

The single door opens, bringing a bright light and a deep voice with it. "Everybody up!" The deep voice yells.

Everyone else, whether they were awake or asleep, all jump up. There are a variety of people in this room with me. The ages of people seem to range from mid-30s to teenagers. And the size difference is from pro boxer to a stealthy fox. Either way, we are all here and all very confused.

"I'm not going to wait all day! Follow me." The man attached to the voice says. Now that my eyes have adjusted to the light, I can see the man with the low voice has a large statue.

We all file out of the room and straight into a much larger one. Much, much larger. And it holds everything from targets to weights to running machines. An exquisite training room. But the question that beckons is, what kind of training?

The man who called us out of the room stands in front of us and wears athletic shorts and a sleeveless black shirt that shows his muscles. He doesn't say anything, just stares holes through every single one of us. Each of us getting our special turn.

I hear the door behind us, not the one we came from, open and close, and stealth footsteps trace through the small crowd to the front. The person is small, and they have blonde hair.

"I don't have all day, so get out of the way!" Yells the blonde.

She's obviously a girl based on her voice and her hair. It is tightly braided in three small sections and all brought to the back of her head. Three braids are held together in the back with a piece of elastic. She wears skin tight black leggings, and a black baggy long sleeve shirt. While she is small, an ora of intimidation radiates from her.

Even through the baggy long sleeve, I can see her shoulders are back and toned muscles run along her body. She stands at the balls of her feet, ready to pounce at any given second. I already make a note to not underestimate her.

When she gets to the front, she turns to the other man and whispers something to him. They both laugh softly. Then she turns and faces the rest of us.

"Welcome," she says, her voice lower than a normal girl's, "to the first day of the rest of your life. You were all dead, but we, gracefully, have given you all the gift of life... And never forget we can take it away just as easy."

Ever since I woke up only a few minutes ago, I was simply living in the moment and taking in enough to survive, but now the questions begin to flood into my head. I must not be the only one, because as I look around, other people hold confusion on their faces, too.

"You all must have a lot of questions, and you will get _some_ answers. But you'll mostly get lessons. Lesson number one: Never ask question, ever. If you need to know something, you will be told. Everything else, well, there is a reason you don't know them."

No questions. Well, I'm fucked.

"Today is going to be full of lessons, and maybe we will tell you what you want to know. And if you don't like that, then you can go back to being dead."

No one says anything and no one moves.

"I am sure you all are confused and have a few questions, so let me clear a few things up. We," she nods to the man next to her, "are The Family. And you are our new recruits to be adopted."

Something clicks in my mind; at least there is something that kind of makes sense. The Family is what it sounds like, a family. But they aren't a normal kind to gather on holidays and crack jokes. No, they mean business. From drugs to weapons, they own every black market there is. But what they are most famous for is assassinations.

The Family is the gang of all gangs, making the top spot on every Most Wanted list. In charge of The Family is The Grandfather, who is the eldest male in the family, and rumor says that the position is always passed down to the eldest son of The Grandfather.

And they adopt to make their family stronger and larger. It's more like they take over smaller rival gangs. And then there are people like the twenty in this room, those who have the skills to benefit The Family. I have heard hundreds of horror stories of their skills, of their training, and of their conquest.

But for the longest time, they were all only rumors. Tall tales that were spoken in every city and grew with every new pair of ears that heard. I never thought I would encounter them, but here I am.

"By the look of some of your faces, you know what we're talking about. For those of you who don't, here's all you need to know... We are a gang, a powerful one, and we have chosen you to possibly be adopted. Right now, you're all foster children.

"I'm Six, and this is Harrison," she points to herself then nods to the man next to her. "We will be training and evaluating you."

There are a few laughs, mostly from the brawny men. They are making the mistake of underestimating her.

She moves through the crowd to them. "Is there a joke I didn't hear?"

They don't say a word, nor do they move. Six brings her leg up and knocks one of them off balance. She then uses her elbow to nail him completely off and he falls to the ground. Six lands on him and strategically places her weight on him to keep him from getting up. She pulls a knife from a strap on her arm that was concealed by her sleeve and places it inches from his face.

"Lesson number two, never - and I mean never - underestimate anyone. Especially me." She says so softly it is dangerous. She slips the knife back up her sleeve and into some kind of strap along the forearm.

Six gets up off of the man and walks back to her place next to Harrison like nothing had just happened. While she maneuvers through the crowd, Harrison tries to hold a laugh in, and he surprisingly keeps it in well. His look, however, turns stern as he directs his attention back to the crowd of twenty.

"Everyone get in a line, now!"

We all comply and get in a horizontal line. Harrison grabs a large bad and Six pulls the long sleeve off. Underneath is tank top, but what is most surprising are the tattoos all along her body. On both arms are straps with knives hooked in.

Six and Harrison grab a large laundry bag and start handing out smaller bags to everyone in the line. When they get to me, Six throws a small duffle in my hands without even looking at me. On it, in wicked black print is _Four_. Inside is a bag of work-out clothes.

How they knew my nickname and size sends an uneasy feeling through me.

Once everyone gets a bag, the two instructors go back to their spots in front of us. "Training starts in ten minutes," Six says, "Training will consist of two parts. One part physical, the other mental. You will learn to fight and to kill, perfectly."

Harrison steps up, "We will teach you how to kill with a gun, a knife, your shoelaces, even your fingernails. And if you can't deliver, we will kill you."

Six says, "If you survive that, you will learn the mental aspects of being a killer. You will learn to withstand body numbing pain, how to create poisons, and carry out missions. Anyone can train to kill, the useful ones are smart. And you have to be smart to survive in this world."

Suddenly, Six looks down to her buzzing watch. She gets an unreadable look on her face and turns to Harrison and starts to unravel a combination of numbers.

He simply nods to her and she turns back to us. "I have to go, but Harrison will get you started. And we will see who makes it past the first day."

She turns to walk away, but spins around and I see both of the knives are in her hands. She sends them flying to the targets behind us, nearly hitting a person or two.

"Lesson number three... Never let your guard down."

She stalks to the door and opens it. Right as she is about to leave, she turns to face the rest of us.

"Oh, by the way," she says, "welcome to The Family."

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><p><strong><span>Author's Note<span>**

**The quote at the beginning is from Anthony Brandt and Richard Bach. **

**This idea came to me and I could not stop thinking about it. I have a back story planned, but not that much of where it is going... So we'll see. Let me know if you liked it! Please review!**

**Be brave, everyone!**


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own anything, just my ideas!

**Chapter 2**

SIX

Everyone has a choice in this world. I made mine, all on my own and without the influence of outside obligations or consequences. I was young, but not naïve. I knew some of the risks and that should have frightened me. But I have never felt so powerful.

But I am not a monster. Monsters run wild with no real purpose, and they are full of destruction. While I may leave a blossom of chaos in my wake, it is never a mess.

What I do, it betters the world. Or at least that is what I tell myself to get me through a particular hard or confusing day. That, and the vengeful spirit that runs through my veins. The vengeance comes from a memory so far in the past, the details tend to get weak.

The beginning of my story starts at the end of another. The day my mother was murdered was the day that set my journey in motion.

But every day, since I was a child, I've been training to hunt _him_ down and kill him. Kill him and anyone other bastard who was associated with my mother's a part of that training are these easy missions. Well, for anyone else they would be considered hard, but I am the best assassin in The Family, specially trained by my grandpa and my father. The Grandfather, and The Grandfather before him. And someday, that position will be mine.

My target looms through the streets, his walk shining with swagger as he marches down thinking he is untouchable. He hasn't faced me yet. He normally has others around him, but not tonight. He is alone. And that is not a coincidence. Every night, at this time, he goes to the back of his club and gets high.

He doesn't like to do it in the club, which is understandable. I've been in there - to stalk my targets - and it can be chaotic in there. And getting that peaceful shot of drugs should be quiet and soothing.

But what he doesn't know is that in his normal shot of heroine is now a paralyzer of my own creation. I was always a whiz at chemistry.

In moments, he is on the ground not moving. I jump from my hiding spot and rush to him. The dirty bastard. We were hired outside of The Family for this hit, but we benefit from his unfortunate death too. His club is a strip club, and his girls are disrupting some short-tempered drug dealers.

I am not a fan of prostitution, but in this game of life - one that most do not know about or let themselves know about - I am not one to judge. Or spend much time thinking about it. There is only so much time until his guards come looking for him.

I take the gun attached to my hip and place it in my hand, the power in the metal death machine equaling myself. His body is dead, but his eyes aren't. I pull the trigger and end his life with a small moment of movement.

I take the knife hidden around my ankle and carve my mark into his arm. A flame. Quickly, though, because I hear movement on the other side of the door.

I take my leave and run through the dead of night, its darkness concealing me.

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><p>"You're late," my father tells me as I walk into his master bedroom. A large room, complete with a grand table and elegant hearth.<p>

"Sorry, he took longer to come outside than I expected."

"So it is done."

"Done, father... Eer, Grandfather,' I say. It's been long enough since The Grandfather, my real grandfather, was taken away, but I still have trouble calling my father his formal title.

"It is only us, Tris. And it is our weekly dinner, so come sit down with your father and enjoy a meal."

Every week, we have a family dinner. Not with the other members, just the two of us. Family values are very important here, even for a gang full of criminals and killers. We are still a family.

"I assume tonight had no difficulties," he says.

"Of course not, you and Grandfather trained me well."

He chuckles, "I wouldn't expect anything less."

We eat our meal. There is a fire blazing in the fire place; even though it is summer, we both love the bending of flames. It soothes the two of us, and it reminds us of _her_. But for different reasons.

"We have a new group of Fosters," he says. "They are getting transferred to one of the houses right now."

"Did the transition go well?" When we get new Fosters, we have to erase their past. We fake their death and steal them from the real world. They become ours for whatever we want, each having a special skill we find useful. And we don't pick them off randomly from the street. We recruit them, watch and get every detail of their lives.

"One was a little bit of trouble with the past, but," he smiles, "we're the best."

I laugh a little. He continues, "I want you to train them."

"I thought Uncle Harrison did that."

"I want you there, too. You are the best we have, and you've been specially trained by both myself and your grandfather. Once you're done with them..."

We both smile, turning to the fire burning in the pit. I speak, "I'm having the dreams again... about her. My mom."

He is silence for a little bit, the memory of his one and only love roaming his thoughts. "That's normal. It happens every year around this time."

"I know, I just thought that we could... maybe talk abo-"

"No," he says abruptly. "Why don't you go to your room? You have training in the morning and I have some business to take care of right now."

"Business? Something you can't tell me?"

"No, Six."

I shutter, him using my nickname from The Family instead of my name.

"Okay, I'll go then." I walk out of his room, but I don't go to my own. My emotions are becoming too powerful, and emotions are dangerous. In this world, you have to lose yourself to win. So, I go outside and run. I run till my legs burn like the fire in his room and my shirt is soaked with sweat. Then I run some more.

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><p>The walls in my room are bare, but that is not by choice. The less there is to clean up, the easier and faster we can leave in case we have to. But I still break some of those rules.<p>

I have a small part of the wall next to my bed that is dedicated to photos. My parents - young - smiling in each other's arms. My baby photo, right next to one with my mother holding me. The few rare happy memories take residence on the small piece of wall.

I walk over to the single mirror in the room and begin to brush my long blond hair. I should cut it soon, because long hair just gets in the way. But I can't bring myself to do it. So, I take it into three sections; one on top and one on each side of my head. I tightly Dutch braid each section and collect the three ends in a piece of elastic in the back of my head.

I move to my dresser to get ready for training. But it isn't my training; it's the new recruits. I know why my father wanted me to train them, but I don't see the point in wasting my time. But then, no one else can make them the best they can possibly be. No one, besides my father, has a higher standard.

I pull out tight black pants and a black tank. Then I turn to the closet, my special one. I open the two doors, and along perimeter of the closet and doors are high quality guns, my own personal collection. I open up my knife compartments choose two simple, yet effective, blades. I grab my arm straps and tuck them in.

You can never be too prepared.

Right before I leave my room, I throw on a baggy long sleeve. The element of surprise is crucial. And I don't want them to see my tattooed body right away.

I walk out of The House, the main headquarters of The Family, and to the garage. Inside, I have my pick of transportation - cars, motorcycles, trucks - anything and everything I could possibly need. I chose my best weapon... myself. I don't need a fancy piece of machinery to get me where I need to be. And I love to run.

I'm careful. My route is never the same, and I strategically weave my way through streets that I know have our business. And the ones that we own. I alternate between running and walking, tracing my way to one of our foster homes where the newest recruits will be waking up any second now.

Eventually I get to the foster house and walk in. It is a one story building, but the basement is connected to the house next door. It's main and only purpose is to train Fosters. I creep down the stairs and open the steel door. Their backs are the first things I see. I try to make my way to the front, but no one will move.

"I don't have all day, so get out of the way!" I yell at a muscular back. It doesn't intimidate me, only annoys me. Just another big man who can pick things up and put them down.

My voice has power, I know it, and the crowd parts for me. I hold my head high like I am better than them, because I am. When I get to the front next to Harrison, I turn to him and whisper, "Ready to kick their asses?"

We both laugh a little, knowing they are in for hell. Then we turn to face them.

"Welcome, to the first day of the rest of your life. You were all dead, but we, gracefully, have given you all the gift of life... And never forget we can take it away just as easy." And it's true. Technically, they are all dead now to the outside world.

"You all must have a lot of questions, and you will get _some_ answers. But you'll mostly get lessons. Lesson number one: Never ask question, ever. If you need to know something, you will be told. Everything else, well, there is a reason you don't know them.

"Today is going to be full of lessons, and maybe we will tell you what you want to know. And if you don't like that, then you can go back to being dead."

No one says anything and no one moves.

"I am sure you all are confused and have a few questions, so let me clear a few things up. We," I nod to Harrison next to me, "are The Family. And you are our new recruits to be adopted."

Almost half of the people in the room get a relieved look on their face, probably glad that they finally recognize something. But then their faces harden because they see they are now trapped in our web.

"By the look of some of your faces, you know what we're talking about. For those of you who don't, here's all you need to know... We are a gang, a powerful one, and we have chosen you to possibly be adopted. Right now, you're foster children.

"I'm Six, and this is Harrison. We will be training and evaluating you."

There are a few laughs, mostly from the brawny men. Big men thinking they are tough. Normally with new recruits I don't have to scare them this soon. It takes until the first or second training session, but it looks like I have to do it now.

I walk up to the biggest one and get right in his face. "Is there a joke I didn't hear?"

They don't say a word, nor do they move. I bring my leg up and knock him off balance. I naturally have a smaller frame, but that is a weapon I use to my advantage. I am fast, and I use the power in my elbows and knees to the fullest extent.

In seconds, he is on the ground. I land on him and strategically place my weight on him to keep him from getting up. Both feet pinning his two hands, my torso on his middle chest keeping him down. I pull a knife from one of the straps on my arm and place it inches from his face.

"Lesson number two, never - and I mean never - underestimate anyone. Especially me." I say so softly it is dangerous. There are times to yell and intimidate people with power. But being quiet is even more powerful. All the energy of something big, tightly bundled in a quiet whisper. Deadly.

I slips the knife back in the strap, get off the man, and walk back to my place next to Harrison like nothing had just happened. I push down the excitement rushing through my veins, the same excitement I get whenever I get the jump on someone. Especially someone bigger than me.

"Everyone get in a line, now!" I yell.

They scurry like scared ants and Harrison grabs the large bag full of their training outfits. I take off my long sleeve, no longer needing to hide. But that doesn't mean I don't have any more tricks up my sleeve. I throw each bag at the specific person, not giving any of them a second thought.

When all the bags are passed out, Harrison and I take our places in front of the group. "Training will consist of two parts," I say. "One part physical, the other mental. You will learn to fight and to kill, perfectly."

Harrison steps up, "We will teach you how to kill with a gun, a knife, your shoelaces, even your fingernails. And if you can't deliver, we will kill you."

I say, "If you survive that, you will learn the mental aspects of being a killer. You will learn to withstand body numbing pain, how to create poisons, and carry out missions. Anyone can train to kill, the useful ones are smart. And you have to be smart to survive in this world."

My watch buzzes, and I look down to the message on the little pad. A new mission. It must be important or difficult, because Grandfather wouldn't assign it to me when he wants me to train the Fosters now.

I spit out a combination of numbers to Harrison. It's a code that only the immediate family knows, and now Harrison knows that I have a mission, I won't be back until the next day's training, and to kick their ass while I'm gone.

He simply nods and I turn my attention back to the Fosters. "I have to go, but Harrison will get you started. And we will see who makes it past the first day."

I turn to walk away, but I want to leave them with fear in the memory with me. So I clench both knives in my hands and spin around to them. Everything slows as I send them flying to the targets behind them, nearly hitting a person or two. Too bad.

"Lesson number three... Never let your guard down." I stalk to the door, but I turn my head to face them. "Oh, by the way... Welcome to The Family."

I leave, my new target mere hours away from their death.

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><p><span><strong>Author's Note<strong>

**This story has gotten such a good response, thank you so much! Someone asked if Tris' POV would be used... and I think that question has been answered. I hope you liked it! Please review! I am slowly getting an idea of what's going to happen, but defiantly open to suggestions!**

**Be brave, everyone!**


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own anything, just my ideas!

**Chapter 3**

FOUR

_"I have no choice other than to declare this case a mistrial," the judge says with a disappointed look on his face. He turns his head to face me, his eyes shoot me down. I simply stare at him with the smallest form of a smirk. "Mr. Eaton, you are dismissed." _

_I shake hands with my attorney and walk out the court doors. The walk through the halls, pass the doors, and down the steps is a familiar one. Four, that's the number of times I've had charges pressed against me. And my fourth time without being convicted. _

_No one can nail me down. No one can catch me. No one can stop me. _

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><p>The sound of clanging metal wakes me from my sleep. I turn my head and see Six standing at the door with a metal pipe.<p>

"Rise and shine, Fosters," she says. "You have five minutes to get dressed and report for training."

I internally moan, and the guy laying on the cot next to me buries his head in his pillow. Or at least an excuse for a pillow; not exactly the Hilton hotel here. Not to mention a pesky fly. It buzzes next to my ear, then flies next to the guy still laying down next to me.

"Get your ass up. You don't want to deal with what will happen if you're late," I tell him. I don't care about him, really, but if one of us is out of line we all might get in trouble.

"I didn't know my mom was here," he replies.

"Just trying to get through the day with as little pain as I can," I say with a roll of my eyes.

He smirks at me and reaches out his hand. "Name's Zeke."

"Four."

"The number?" I give him a look; he doesn't push on but asks, "What do you think they will make us do today?"

I sit up in my spot, trying to not strain the muscles that were worked so hard yesterday. After Six left, Harrison had us do running and lifting and rowing and every other form of physical exercise. I work out on my own pretty rigorously, but yesterday was madness.

"After yesterday's workout, it will probably something fundamental. Everyone here survived the physical training, now they will probably make us do shooting guns or throwing knives or who knows what."

"I can't imagine how bad it's gonna be. Especially since Six is here today; she's a god damn maniac."

"A maniac who is good with a knife."

"Why do you think her name is Six. I doubt someone would actually name their child _Six_."

I give him another look. "I'm sure she has her reasons."

"Like you?"

Before I can respond, the door opens again and this time it's Harrison who walks in. "Let's go," he yells, then he throws several large bags into the center of the room. "You're gonna needs these."

We all scramble to the bad and inside are smaller bags with our names on them, like our clothes bags. Inside is a box with multiple guns. Guns; I can do this. I know guns.

_Buzz... Buzz_

That stupid fly better not get near me. I need full concentration when I fire guns.

Everyone grabs their bag and walks out of the room. In the training room, Six stands on top a table with an array of guns sprawled across it. Harrison, who was behind us, moves to the table. Six crouches down and he whispers something into her ear. She nods her head and whispers something back.

Harrison then walks away to the back of the crowd of twenty people. Six jumps off the table, and once she is on the ground, she picks up a gun from the table.

_Buzz... Buzz_

"Today, right now, is dedicated to shooting guns. I assume we know how to load and fire one, correct?"

People nod their heads, which is good enough for her because she continues, "Over there are twenty targets. You all will fire and when the light above the target blinks, you have passed. Like this."

She walks over to one of the targets. It is a rectangle the distance of the lower stomach to the top of a head. There are circles on it, each smaller and smaller till there is only a dot. Or at least it is small enough to be a dot. Six plants her feet and brings the gun up. Her eyes center on the target, and I swear, not a single muscle even twitches.

The room is so silent, I can hear the movement of her arm as she pulls the trigger. The once silent room explodes with gunfire. Every bullet hits the target, and not only do they hit the target, they hit the center every time. It only takes a few seconds for the light above the target to light up.

_Buzz... Buzz_

Six breaks from her deadly concentration and turns around, her gun still up. Her eyes search for only a moment, then they focus again. A single shot is fired and the buzzing stops. Six walks over to the other side of the room and picks up the fly.

She holds it in her hand and says, "After we're done with you, and if you survive that, you all will be good enough to shoot the wings off of a fly... Like this."

She holds up the fly so we all can see its squirming legs and lack of wings.

Harrison, who is still in the back, says, "You all will shoot at the targets until you see your light turn on. And don't be the last one!"

We all scatter to targets and Six walks over to her target and removes the paper on top and replaces it with a new target sheet. I take a spot in between Zeke and another guy. The guy is pretty large, but the look in his eyes says he's not all that comfortable with any of this. I mean, who is?

It doesn't take me long to get a good handle on the 9 mm in my hands. And it takes less time for me to find the inner parts of the target. But my light won't turn on. I'm not hitting dead center like Six did, but I'm right there.

They must want pure precision and only the best. I guess the goal is to shoot the wings off of a fly. I make my stance firmer and hold my gun with more power, more command.

Focus on the center. Only the center.

Then a light goes on off on the other side of the room. Harrison moves over to that person. It's one of the smaller guys, and he can't be older than sixteen. Harrison says, "Good job, now go over to the weights and start lifting."

How did that little shrimp get it before me? I've been shooting guns for years, I am the best shot in my neighborhood. I scan the rest of the room, looking at the varying targets. Some are like mine... good, but not good enough. Others, like the guy next to me, are having trouble getting close to the center.

I can't worry about the others, I need to focus on mine. Only mine. The circles are getting closer together and it feels like the target is getting further away. I hold up the gun, and I am about to pull the trigger when I hear a click next to my head.

Six stands next to me, a revolver in her hand held up against my head. I try to turn my head, but she presses the gun to my skull. She says, "Shoot the target."

"What?"

"Shoot the target."

"Right now?"

"Or I could shoot you. It's not that hard. Now, hold up your gun and shoot the target."

What the hell is she doing? How am I supposed to shoot the target when she is right here hanging my life in an inch of movement. I notice around me the others have stopped shooting and are now watching me.

I pull my gun up and fire it at my target. I miss, pretty bad. It's the furthest shot from the middle.

"Your mind is too busy; you're not focusing," she tells me.

"How am I supposed to focus when you have a gun to my head?!"

She stares daggers at me. "You learn to focus. And you just do it."

Her voice gets louder, addressing the whole group. "Our job is our target. Nothing else matters. So you focus everything out except for that target. In The Family, we learn through practice and application. We don't baby you and hold your hand." She turns back to me, bringing the gun to my head, "Now, shoot the target."

I hold the gun up, but I can't pull the trigger. I can't focus. I feel Six get closer to me, her mouth against my ear. "Breathing. Focus on your breathing."

Her voice didn't have the venom in it, nor did it have fire. I turn my head slightly, trying to see if there is fire in her eyes, to see if it is all in my imagination. But I can only see the gun. And her hand holding it. I catch the smallest sign of a scar. I do not linger on the mysterious marking; instead, I listen the advice and focus on my breathing.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Steady the gun. Breathe out. Breathe in. Pull the trigger. Breathe out.

My bullet hits the target, almost dead in the center. I keep on breathing, bring my mind to a focus. After a few shots, my light goes on and the gun to my head falls.

"Not bad. Your mind is too busy... Too many thoughts running rapid," Six says. "But don't worry, we'll fix that."

"Who says I need to be fixed?"

She comes up closer. I know I am testing her, and I might have a death wish, but it feels almost right challenging her.

She says, "You think you're good, don't you? You think you are the shit. Well I'm here to tell you that you are pretty good. But we are better. And we are going to make you lethal. But don't forget," her voice is low and void of any emotion, "we _own_ you."

* * *

><p><span><strong>Author's Note<strong>

**I wanted to update this story at some point over my spring break. Hope you guys liked it! I love to hear all of your thoughts. Please review!**

**Be brave, everyone!**


	4. Chapter 4

I do not own anything, just my ideas!

**Chapter 4**

SIX

I wonder if anyone would believe me if I said that my parents' story is a _love_ story. But, just like any good love tragedy, the ending is not guaranteed to be good.

It is hard to believe the king of crime is capable of such a thing. Love. I bet no one would be shocked to know it ended in tragedy. But I am here, still alive, and so is my father. That has to mean something, right?

It was not supposed to end the way it did. There was no possible way the ending of their story could have been good, but it should have at least ended better.

She was a good person, my mother. She was smart and kind and patient and optimistic. Or, at least, that is what my father has told me. I did not know her well enough to measure her traits, but all I needed to know when she was here was that she loved me. She loved me before I even knew what love was. Part of me still does not know.

The thoughts of my mother are the closest things I have to love.

My grandfather, The Grandfather, believed in the traditional things. One of those meant getting a proper education. He sent my father to public school, in the hopes that he would get an education and create possible connections. But the connection my father made was one my grandfather was not planning on.

She was smart and one of the best math tutors in the school. So, when my father was failing Algebra II, my mother was there to help his dying grade. They both did not plan on falling for each other, but it happened. He saw a part of her that was kind, yet strong. And he showed her a loyal, devoted side.

Of course, my father's father did not approve of them being together. My father was to inherit the family business, and she was a blonde suburban girl. They were two different people, on two different paths.

They continued to see each other, but deep down, my father knew the danger he was causing her. Being truly in love with someone in a world he lived in was bad. And a weakness. They were in love, but they had to keep it a secret.

It was not long later when my grandfather, The Grandfather, became overwhelmingly sick, leaving my father to become the new Grandfather. He took over the family business, knowing his duties, but he still loved my mother. He had to keep her safe, so when she became pregnant with a little girl, they got married in private. He knew he had to keep my mother and me safe, so he hid us from the world.

But my father and The Family had great enemies. Not to mention a mole that had surfaced. And that is when the love story turns into a tragedy.

Maybe that is why my father never sent me to public school. Perhaps he is afraid I will find my own Natalie. As much as he loved her, and as much as he loves me, he knows the price to that love. And how fragile it is.

But I hold on tight to one thing.

There is something admiring of my mother. Through everything, she stood with my father. She loved him, and after finding out about who he really was, she still loved him. She loved the man she knew was inside of him. She stayed with him through her tragic end, and she loved him and I through it all.

Who said stories had to have happy endings, anyway?

* * *

><p>I stare down at their sleeping faces just seconds before my watch beeps for six in the morning. There are two kinds of people in this world. People who sleep soundly like a baby, nothing shown on the outside other than a peaceful sleep. Then there are people whose dreams coarse through their sleeping minds and send such vivid images appear that they cannot contain their emotions.<p>

There are more of the latter in this room.

Everyone is scarred, and I have come to know that only in sleep is when those scars truly show.

I hear my watch beep, and I take the metal pole in my hand and start hitting the wall. I say, "Rise and shine, Fosters. You have five minutes to get dressed and report for training."

I walk out of the room, and as I do, I hear a few hints of moans. I'll get them later for that. As I make my way to the table of assorted guns, Harrison walks in with a big bag.

"I just woke them up," I say.

"I'll just throw these in there, then," Harrison says as he approaches their door. He tosses the bag in and walks back to me, where I have made a nice place to stand at the table. "Excited? I know guns are your favorite to teach."

"There's always one person who can never focus, thinking shooting a gun is easy. It's not. It takes a lot more than just pulling a trigger."

"I'm sure you will come up with something to get them to focus," he says as he walks to the back of the room.

It only takes a few minutes for the Fosters to scurry out of the dorm and into the training room. Along with them, I notice a particularly large (and loud) fly. At first I find it annoying, but if I have ever learned one thing, it is to use what brings weakness on me and turn it into a weapon.

_Buzz... Buzz_

I focus in on the buzzing, letting it soak my thoughts, and then I push it out. A key to everything I have learned is keeping a strong mental mind. I'll get to it later.

Harrison walks up to the table and I crouch down to him. He says, "I figure you've already picked up on the runt."

I nod and say, "I already have a plan."

I get back up and jump down from the table. Once I am down, I look at the choices I have to choose from. I decide on a simple gun. I say, "Today, right now, is dedicated to shooting guns. I assume we know how to load and fire one, correct?"

I see a few heads nod and figure it is good enough and if they cannot keep up then that is their own fault.

"Over there are twenty targets. You all will fire and when the light above the target blinks, you have passed. Like this."

_Buzz... Buzz_

I walk in front of one of the targets. I have done this too many times to count. It was the first thing I used when I was taught to fire a gun. I focus on the circles on the paper, imagining _him_ in front of me. When I do imagine the devil who killed my mom, my aim is never off. I plant my feet firmly into the ground as if they were roots of a tree.

My muscles are relaxed, but at the same time they do not move. I can feel the burning silence in the air, which is a good thing because I know they are watching me. I make the slightest move, but it is enough to send the room into a blast of bullets. And each one of them hits the center perfectly. Dead.

The light turns on, and that is when I stop.

_Buzz... Buzz_

This is my chance. I do not break my concentration as I turn and search the air for the black dot. I see it. And I take the chance, with all their dead set eyes on me, and fire into the air. But it is not the air, it is the fly that receives my bullet and flutters to the ground.

I walk over to the fly and pick it up. Just as I aimed to do, a wingless fly. I show the group and say, "After we're done with you, and if you survive that, you all will be good enough to shoot the wings off of a fly... Like this."

Harrison, who is still in the back, says, "You all will shoot at the targets until you see your light turn on. And don't be the last one!"

They scatter to the different targets as I replace the paper from the one I was on. The gunfire in the room begins immediately. With a lot of people, gunfire is unnerving. But it soothes me, almost. It reminds me of time with my father, with my grandfather. Call us anything you want, but we are a family.

And those moments when they beat me down, forcing me to get up and succeed, are the most powerful memories I have, and the most grateful ones, as well.

The Fosters continue to shoot, some of them with really good form. I can see some frustrated faces across the room. Sucks for them, a simple hit on body may mean something where they are from, but here we demand perfection.

A light goes on off on the other side of the room. Harrison moves over to that person. It's one of the smaller guys, surprises me a little. But as I think about it, he seems more brains over brawn. Besides, I want this exercise to test the mind more than the body. And maybe I tampered with his light to make it turn on sooner than the others.

I really want to test them. If one of the youngest Fosters can master the task first, with is small size, then I want to see how the others take it. I walk around the room and find the perfect person who will fall victim to my mind test. I know my father wants this stage of training to be pure body and the next to be mind, but to me they work hand-in-hand.

It does not take me long to find a busy mind. They are easy for me to spot. Four. One of the supposed best that we have. We shall see how he handles me. I take the revolver I had hidden on me and place it on his head. I tell him, "Shoot the target."

"What?"

"Shoot the target."

"Right now?"

"Or I could shoot you. It's not that hard. Now, hold up your gun and shoot the target."

His eyes go crazy, but then he tries to calm down. It does not work well because when he brings his gun up and fires, the bullet misses the target bad.

"Your mind is too busy; you're not focusing."

"How am I supposed to focus when you have a gun to my head?!"

"You learn to focus. And you just do it."

This is what most people would call a teachable moment. Four is not the only one who is having trouble focusing, but he is the one I have chosen today. I do not know why I decided on him. There are other people who are doing worse than him, so why do I put him on the spot. Maybe it is because I know for some odd reason that he can take it, and that he is smart enough to get himself out of this mess.

"Our job is our target. Nothing else matters. So you channel everything out except for that target. In The Family, we learn through practice and application. We don't baby you and hold your hand." I turn back to him, bringing the gun to his head, "Now, shoot the target."

He holds up the gun, but hesitates to pull the trigger. He still cannot focus. I was hoping he could figure this out on his own, but get taken back to one of my first days of training so many years ago. I come to his ear and say, "Breathing. Focus on your breathing."

He turns his head just enough to see the gun. His eyes linger though, but not on the gun. They linger on my hand, on the scar that lays on my right hand. I am about to press the gun harder to his head when he turns away.

He begins to take in and release good, solid breaths. Then he pulls the trigger and a line bullets hit the target. I can see his mind focus and sharpen with each breath he takes. It does not take long before the light turns on and I bring the gun held up against his head down.

"Not bad. Your mind is too busy... Too many thoughts running rapid," I say, returning to my instructor mode. "But don't worry, we'll fix that."

"Who says I need to be fixed?"

I come up closer to him. I have a feeling he is testing me, just like I just tested him. Part of me admires him for the challenge, but a more powerful part strives to beat him back into his place. I need to make sure him and all of these people know who they are dealing with.

"You think you're good, don't you? You think you are the shit. Well I'm here to tell you that you are pretty good. But we are better. And we are going to make you lethal. But don't forget... We _own_ you."

* * *

><p><strong><span>Author's Note<span>**

**This update kind of came out of nowhere. Let's just say plans fell through and I am dealing with a horrible cold. AKA I am coughing up my lungs. I hope you guys liked this and hopefully I can update FTS soon! (I am having trouble with one specific section.) Anyway, reviews are always encouraged and wonderful.**

**Be brave, everyone!**


	5. Chapter 5

I do not own anything, just my ideas!

**Chapter 5**

FOUR

I do not remember when it happens, but I lose track of the days.

It is not like I did not try; I did. There would be days that I would make the smallest mark on the wall in front of my cot, or times I drew lines across the floor. But the next day, or even the next time I would come to my cot, the marks would be erased as if they were never there. So, I have no idea how long I have been in this place, and as I ask the others, they have no clue as well.

"It's all about messing with our minds. Like a mind game," Zeke says one morning.

"Oh really, and tell us more about these _mind games_," says Max, the guy on the other side of Zeke.

"Oh come on, are you guys really gonna tell me you haven't heard the stories."

That makes everyone in the room quiet. Of course everyone has heard the stories. You only have to be on the streets for at least a month to catch a whiff of the legends that circle around the streets of every city.

Max says something first. "One of the guys I used to deal with, Tony, said his brother was chosen to be a Foster. Of course, he never saw his brother again. Rumor has it though, the brother came back to see Tony. But it wasn't to say hi. No, The Family caught Tony sellin' on their streets, so they sent the brother to kill Tony. I haven't seen Tony since the rumors..."

"You don't believe that? Killing his own brother?"

"_Mind Games_," Max says. "How else you'd explain it? In this world, business is business. And The Family is the CEO. They didn't get to the top by shaking hands and kissing babies."

"We have not even faced the worst of it yet," I say.

"Says the guy who had a gun pointed at his head the other day... or week... or..." Zeke gets lost in his words, the days swimming around together. "You know what I mean. Six pointed a gun at you while you were shooting. I was betting you'd pee your pants."

"Well get ready to pee yours, because you heard Six and Harrison. This is only stage one. Physical. Mental is the second stage. The mind games..." I shake my head. "This is just a warm up."

That makes everyone quiet. And no one talks as we get ready for yet another day. For the past... well, I don't really know how many days, it could be weeks. But for the past several how much time, we have been working on shooting guns.

Every different kind of gun. Small guns, big guns, medium guns. Every gun I have ever seen or heard of, and more. It amazes me the number of guns that I have not seen, some of them had foreign writing on them. I used to think that all there was to guns was shooting. But I guess I was wrong. Apparently you can do so much more...

Someone bumps into me as they run to their cot. After enough times of Six or Harrison waking us up, we have found a rhythm to getting ready. There is a bell that says _You better get up now_. And after that everyone gets ready. Or, I guess, everyone talks about mind games. It does not matter. Whatever they plan on throwing me, I will handle it.

As I finish getting dressed, pulling the skin tight black shirt on, I walk to my cot. I check again for the markings I made, what? Five days ago. Was it five, or more, or less? I try to push the cloud out of my thoughts, but fog still remains.

I won't let their games get to me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the door open, and some of the other Fosters start to walk out. I take the spoon I keep hidden from one of our meals, and I engrave a mix of small markings on the wall. It isn't much, and you can hardly see the marks, but I still push my cot to cover it. For extra measures, I place my pillow strategically in place so there is no way the markings show.

I walk out, now being in the back of the crowd, to the training room. Instead of the arrangement of guns, there are knives. Six stands in the corner; she plays with a small knife between her fingers. Harrison stands next to the knives, sharpening some of the crueler blades.

Harrison says, "We are done with guns... For now. After all, you don't _only_ use guns on the streets. So for the next few days, we will be focusing on knives."

Six materializes next to him. She says, "Today will just be throwing them at targets. Easy enough. You would be surprised how useful it is to know how to throw a knife on point."

There is something behind her words. I cannot tell what, but she seems different today. Like there is something fazing her, something clouding _her_ mind.

Harrison adds, "To excel at knife throwing, you must master many techniques. There's holding, throwing, spins and rotations, distance, and obviously: targets. Six will show you the basics."

She takes a stance, and I make a mental note of where her feet stand compared to her shoulders and the way she balances her weight.

"You are going to swing your arm with the knife back and up until it is slightly behind your head. Swing your arm toward the target while shifting you weight. Keep your left arm steady in front of you. When your arm is lined up again almost next to your left, release the knife. And keep in mind that the knife turns around the center of gravity as you throw it at your target. This means the fewer rotations, the better control and aim you will have."

When Six finishes, her and Harrison give all the Fosters three to five knives, and they send us to the targets. Unlike the guns, these don't have lights. It feels like today is an easy day. But I know better than to let my guard down. Nothing about any of this should seem easy.

I flip the knives in my hands, similar to what Six was doing in the corner. When I look around, I see others with cocked arms and others with side arms. I have thrown a knife before, but even with that small experience, I try to mimic what I saw Six do. At the last second, I make sure I am aware of my breathing.

Breathe in, breath out.

I throw my first round of knives. Some of them hit the outside target, others just bounce off. One does not even come close. I grab another round of knives. This round, I have no trouble finding the target. I guess messing around with knives in my backyard as a kid is paying off.

I go for another round when I see Six looking at me. She stares me down, giving me a calculated look. Behind her eyes, I can see her mind running. She still seems different today, but no mood change can affect her perceptive brain.

She breaks her glance from me and turns her attention to Harrison next to her. They share a few words and then Harrison storms to another Foster that is having trouble making a knife stick.

"What's the problem here?" He asks the girl, seventeen years old at the most. She is built long and lean, but she has not excelled at any of the other things we have done.

"I don't do knives. I've never done knives," the girl says.

"Well Christina," I guess her name is Christina. "Now is when to learn."

"I told you before, I'm a hacker. I don't shoot guns or throw knives."

Christina has guts, saying all that. _A stubborn loud-mouth_ is all I think.

Harrison softens, slightly, but I know it is a ruse. "Your right, we did recruit you for hacking. But let me tell you something," Harrison gets closer to her. "The Family excels at _everything_ we do. I do not care if you have fun playing with computers..."

He grabs the knife out of Christina's hand and throws it at the target. The knife is so deep in the target, I do not know if it will come out. "You will learn. You will find that anger and fire and you will use it to fuel everything you do."

Harrison walks away, and Christina takes lets out the air in her lungs that she was holding in. I continue to throw knives. And the whole time, I feel Six's eyes burning holes through my back.

We get a small break for lunch. How nice. And when we return, the knives are still there. The whole morning, I focused on throwing the knife to hit the center. Then, to see if I was really as good as I thought, I would pick a spot on the target and aim for it (to see if it was not all just mechanical luck). Of course I would hit the spot almost every time.

Now, I try different spins and see what happens when I hold the knife differently. I find myself intrigued with the different things my mind and body can do. Then, I feel her eyes on me again, and before I know it, Six is standing next to me. I hesitate for a moment.

"Don't stop just because I am here," she says.

When I turn to face her, she is staring at my hands holding the knives. I realize what is going on her mind, sort of. At least, I have seen that look she has before in many others' eyes. She calculating, weighing different options in her mind. While she is raveling in her mind, there is still something there. Something I cannot quite figure out.

She breaks her concentration when there is a beeping from her watch. She simply glances down, presses a button or two, and then brings her attention back to me. She says, "Go on."

I turn away from her and throw the rest of my knives. They all hit the target. They all are in the center.

Six says, "You're good at this. Now try your left hand."

"My left hand?! Why when I throw with my right."

"There is no point of mastering one skill, only to limit it to one part of your body. You seem ahead of the others, and it only gets harder. So if I were you, I'd get my left hand just as strong as my right."

She walks away, and I brush her off. I try the stupid left idea, and I struggle. After a while, others begin to try their opposite hand. For some of them, it is easy to switch to the other side.

I, on the other hand, keep struggling to throw it accurately or powerfully with my left hand. I keep trying, making notes on what I need to do, but I cannot get it. Eventually I return the knives to my right hand and start throwing them with my dominate hand.

As if on cue, Six comes up to me. "What are you doing?"

"I'm throwing the knives. And it is working."

"You are only hurting yourself. What if something happens and you can't use your hand?"

I give her a puzzled look. Oddly, she reaches for her hair and pulls out a bobby pin. But when I look closer at it, I can see it is really a small knife. The girl keeps knives in her hair.

She puts the pin knife in her mouth and slightly pulls it in. Then, in the blink of an eye, she spits the pin out of her mouth and it goes zinging to the target. Bull's eye.

Six says, "When you are in a sticky situation, you have to improvise."

I just stare at the pin sticking out of the target. Then I feel a powerful blow to my chest, and then I am on the ground. Six stands over me.

She takes her foot and steps on my right arm. Then she takes the hilt of a large knife and slams it on my right hand. Sharp pains run rapid as I try to collect what is happening. _She's breaking my hand?!_

Six stands back up and begins to walk away. I can see the others watching, and their looks tell me that this is really happening and I am not imagining it.

"My hand!?" I yell.

She stops and turns slowly.

"It did not break, merely a bruise at the most. I made sure of that. It will heal soon enough," she says, but her words feel like they are hard to say. "In the meantime, you will learn to make your left hand stronger."

Harrison walks up to Six. He puts a hand on her shoulder, but her eyes have become ice cold. Harrison says, "Everyone! That is enough for today."

Without another word, the other Fosters walk out of the training room. I linger. Harrison walks out one of the doors after telling Six something. Now, it is just the two of us.

"Are you crazy?"

"I told you it will heal fast. It's the only way you'll learn the left side. With your shooting too."

"Why me?" I ask.

She does not answer right away. In fact, she completely zones me out and her eyes gloss over. She focuses on organizing the knives on the table. Maybe she will not answer me, it is not like she has to. Just as I am walking away, she speaks up. "Because you can take it."

I turn back around to face her, pain throbbing from my hand. It looks like she wants to say more, but pulls it in. I am about to say something, but she speaks first.

"I know you can."

She crosses the room and opens a hatch in the wall. She throws a bag at me, and the second it hits my good hand, a shot of cold runs. An ice pack. She then returns to the table and acts like I am no longer in the room.

I walk back into the dorm room. I go straight to my cot and throw my head to my pillow. I stay there for a moment, extinguishing all my frustration in a single yell into the cotton pillow. Then there is a click in my mind. I carefully lift the cot to reveal the wall.

Just as I thought, the markings are gone.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Author's Note<span>**

**Sorry this took a while to update. But it's here! And in the next chapter you will find out why this knife teaching was hard for Six! Please review!**

**Be brave, everyone!**


	6. Chapter 6

I do not own anything, just my ideas!

**Chapter 6**

SIX

"Why me?" He asks, and there is anger behind his voice. I am not surprised. It would be appropriate for someone to be mad when they think their hand was just broken.

But it is not good anger. Not the kind that is centered and pointed and focused. Not the kind you can use effectively. No, this anger is uncontrolled, and uncontrolled anger is the worst thing anyone could ever have.

I want to scold him and show him how to control his anger. But I cannot. My mind is too consumed with a deep memory. The one thing that has been nagging the back of my mind all day.

_Another blow to my face._

_The pain stings, but over the past few years, I have found a way to not feel pain as intensely. There are days of training dedicated only to controlling pain. Father says that eventually, I will cease to feel pain completely._

_I almost got a block from my father's hit, but he hit my left side. And I am dominate on my right. His arm was so fast, I almost did not see it. But I felt it. In response, I spin, creating a distance, and I get low._

_I block his next hit with my arm and jab him in the neck with my free hand. He staggers backwards and comes to a stop._

_"Good," he says. "Now try with the other hand."_

_I do the move again, but it is not as good as when I use my dominate side. My father does not say anything, only sends me to the other corner of the room._

_"You are getting good, but not good enough," he says. It may not seem like the best thing to tell a daughter, but to me in a world like this, that is the norm. But if I have learned anything, it is to never get too comfortable about anything. Always keep your senses on edge._

_Once we reach the corner, I see several arrays of knives. He says, "I want you to throw these at the target."_

_I have spent my fair share of time with knives, so it seems odd that my father is having me work with them again like this. The last time we used knives, he was showing me the different ways to stab someone's leg. One would be surprised the number of places on the leg that, if stabbed correctly, will make someone bleed out in ten or less minutes._

_Normally, when The Family trains new recruits, the training process is concentrated but short. It lasts only a few months. (It always depends on the group of Fosters.) I have been training for years, learning every detail there is to know about everything._

_My father trains me to be the best._

_My father notices my questionable look. "Throw the knives at the target."_

_"But, I have already learned how to throw. Isn't there something more useful you can teach me? All we have done today feels like... Review. I thought you push me to the edge."_

_"Do not question me, Six." He only refers to me as Six when I am training._

_I follow his instructions and throw the knives. I do different spins, and I even use both hands without him telling me. (Maybe I can impress him.) I finish two sets when he stops me._

_"Six," he says. "Come here."_

_I walk over to the table he stands next to. Once I am close enough to him, he whips back his arm as if he will hit me. In instinct, I hold up my hand to block his hit. But instead of hitting me, he pulls his arm back._

_"That is just what I needed," he says._

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Put both your hands on the table." I obey. "Your right hand is your dominate. That means your left side is weak. We need to change that."_

_"I will train..."_

_I do not get to finish my words because my father brings a hammer to my right hand. After years of experiencing pain, this has to be the worst. He has taught me how to manage pain and ignore it. But this kind of pain cannot be ignored._

_I know it is broken._

_My father tells me to be ready to train in the morning, and he walks away. The moment he leaves, I let out a scream. Not just in pain, but in frustration. I know this is all for my own good. I have to become the best. I have to. And I know getting to that point will never become easy._

_Why did this life chose me? I cannot ask that question. I chose this life. I chose to become this and to do what it takes to destroy the man who killed my mother. My father told me what it would take, yet I still chose to become a part of The Family._

_I stare at my hand. It is now useless and broken and in pain. Right where the hammer came in contact with my hand, there is a faint scar._

_I doubt it will go away anytime soon._

I stare at the scar that still lays on my hand. I make sure to make it look like I am arranging the knives instead of staring at my scar.

My father never went easy on me. In fact, times like those in the training room, he was not a father. Or at least, he did not act like a father. It was only when we were alone, away from training, that he was my father. Of course, since my training unofficially completed, it has gotten better.

When I look up, I can see Four's frustration in my lack of response. I ignore his demeanor. I did not want to do knives. I hate teaching knives for reasons that are obvious. I think a moment longer. Why do I chose to pick on him? I know he is one of the better recruits, but there are others to pick on. But why him?

"Because you can take it," I finally say. He turns to face me.

He can take the pain, just like I did. But in fact, I had to deal with worse. My hand was _actually_ broken. Mine was broken because it had time to heal. He has more training ahead of him in less time than I did.

I knew what I was doing when I brought my knife to his hand. It'll be fine in a week, two tops. It is only what is best for him. And for some reason, I know he can handle it. Some of these other Fosters would not be able to take such blows.

I notice he is walking away. I say, "I know you can."

The memory of the pain fills my mind. It has been so long since I have felt such pain, so that pain is burned in my mind. I cross to one of the compartments in the wall that holds ice.

I open it up and toss an ice pack his way. Then he leaves my mind. I return to the table of knives and continue to clean up the blades. When I look up, he is gone.

* * *

><p>Beads of sweat begin to form on my forehead and the small of my back. I can feel the rough brick against my skin, even with the synthetic gloves separating the wall from my skin.<p>

I wear a skin tight suit that goes from the top of my neck down to my feet. It absorbs sweet without withdrawing it. My hair is secured in a tight bun. No need for any DNA to be left behind. Scaling walls are not hard for me. In fact, I love it; I love the way my heart runs with excitement the higher I go up.

Even though my days are filled with training Fosters, my nights are dedicated to my duties to The Family.

The only way to get to the air vent at top is to climb up the building. It takes me 31 seconds to make it up the thirteen stories where the vent is. I take the knife hooked to my waist and slice at the rusted nails holding the vent on.

The metal breaks, and I swing it open. I slide into the air vent and make my way through the tunnels of air. There are a lot of people in this building, but only one that matters to me. And he is the only one inhabiting the top floor. But in minutes, it will be vacant of life.

It is an abandoned building, but someone is trying to use it to house their drug ring. A new group coming through the lake from the north. The Grandfather wants to nip this group in the bud before they become a _real_ problem.

It is actually odd that he is alone, the leader of this supposed group, but he is here on the top floor. The top floor's layout is none to say a little. It has no walls dividing it into any specific sections; it is one large room.

That might not seem like much, but to me, that means I have to travel through the vents to get to him. My silent crawl through the vents takes a few minutes. At this moment, time is not an issue. After the deed is done, then is when I have to be fast.

I reach the vent that sits right above where he is. He is looking over different papers. (Or, at least, he was. Based on the way is head is positioned, he is dozing in and out of consciousness.) From what I can see, they are formulas. Drugs. I roll my eyes. If you have to refer to a sheet to know what you need to make a drug, you should not be in this business. Besides, papers create unwanted trails.

And they are always shocked when The Family can hunt them down.

I know I have to be silent, so I take the screws from the vent and tentatively unravel them. When the metal is lose, I hold onto the vent as the last parts of the screw come out. The vent swings down and I carefully fall to the ground.

I stand and grab the knife at my side. I walk over to my target sitting in his chair. All of a sudden, he turns around with a knife in his own hand. He swipes the hand with the knife at my face, but he misses. He does, however, catch the tip of my ear.

"Let me guess," he says. "The 311 Crew?"

I shake my head. The 311's would never be able to get to him this fast. I say, "The Family does not like people on their turf. Especially any in Chicago."

"The Family?! They never hire outside the gang for hits."

I shot of anger rushes through me. The Grandfather has kept me a secret for obvious reasons, but it bothers me when half-ass mobsters think a woman cannot handle the streets.

"You are right. _We_ do not," I say.

His eyes slightly widen, and I use taking him off guard to my advantage. I stab at the hand he holds the knife, and I disarm him. Before he can reach for another weapon or call for help, I spin around him. I take my knife and make a cut along his neck.

He falls to his knees, his now bloody hand grabbing at his throat. Blood does not flow immediately, but after a few seconds, I see the blood. I walk up to him and say, "We are The Family. Too bad you will not survive this to tell the others."

But no worries, the rumors of tonight will reach the streets before the dawn breaks.

Before I leave, I take my knife and carve my mark, the flame, into his arm. When I finish, I cross the room to the shaft that will take me to the basement. I climb in and crawl down the wall as fast and careful as I can.

I would not call it funny or ironic, but I just taught that stab to the Fosters. You rip the blade across the throat, but half-way through, you twist your wrist ever so slightly to puncture the esophagus. Then, instead of blood flowing out, it goes into the lungs, drowning the victim in their own blood.

It is cruel, but effective. It prevents the victim from calling for help. It is useful in a heavy populated area.

But I need the time. I suspect that someone will find the body, and I need to get the next part of the job done before they find it.

I reach the basement, and I immediately find the power box. The Grandfather not only wants this group's leader to disappear, but this building as well. This is prime real estate, and we do not want another gang to get any ideas.

I reach the box and begin to work my magic on the different wires. I cross specific wires and add my own creation to the mix. It takes a total of two and a half minutes. Once I finish I set my clock. It will take ten minutes before the wires produce a spark, and another twenty-five for a fire to take the building.

In an hour, the building will cease to exist. And by then, the body may or may not be discovered.

Once I am out of the building, after dodging from the view of several guards, I disappear into the night. I am naturally quick, a big thanks to my smaller frame. I use the bending shadows under the full moon to my advantage, and I duck and weave through the various allies.

I reach a specific ally over a mile away from the building that contains my hidden box. Using the unlit stretch of concrete, I throw on the change of clothes. Jean shorts, a tank, and a flannel. I pull my suit up and put the black running shoes on. My hair falls in a high, sleek pony tail.

I put in head phones and walk the rest of the way back. I walk a steady, unbothered pace. As if I did not just kill a man and set a building a blaze. I can hear the sirens start to wail already.

I guess the spark was more powerful than I planned, but it usually turns out that way anyway.

I do not mind the long walk back to The House. I like taking walks, especially at night when there are not as many people around. Of course night brings danger, but I am one of those dangers.

After several more blocks, I get to the tattoo parlor that sits five block from The House. It's small, but it works. A couple years back, one of my father's cousins married a neighborhood friend. She just so happened to own the tattoo parlor.

Her names is Tori. Unlike my mother, The Grandfather did not have a problem with her. He'd known Tori her whole life, and the tattoo parlor became a useful place to get information from the streets.

When I walk in, a bell sounds. I see Tori materialize from the back. Once she sees me, she wraps her arms around me and gives me a hug.

"I'll get my stuff ready," Tori says when she pulls back.

Tori knows that when I come to see her, it means I want a tattoo. Over the past four years, I have come a total of 21 times.

I remember the day four years ago so clearly. The Grandfather decided I was ready for my first mission. It took me only three weeks to prepare for it. He was a rogue cop who chose the wrong side to go rogue on.

So that night after I killed him as I walked home (my first night with blood on my hands), I went to a park. I know going to a park after killing someone seems oddly out of character, but that was what I did. I sat in the swings and stared up.

I know my mother did not want this for me, and at that moment, there was no going back. There was blood on my hands, after all. I looked up, and that was where it all began.

"Just one tonight?" Tori asks me.

"Yeah, one tonight. Well, at least, only one target. The others are collateral damage."

I take off my shirt and walk over to the chair next to Tori and her tattoo equipment. I lay on my stomach, telling and showing Tori the place to put the tattoo. I hear the buzz of the needle, then it is on my skin.

It does not take long for Tori to paint my skin. It is a small tattoo that I get. When she finishes, she tilts two mirrors so I can see my back and shoulders.

I decided on that night, the one of my first kill, that I would put a star on my body. And ever since then, I have placed many stars along my back and shoulders. Each one represents a life I have taken. Because every time someone dies, the sky gets a new star.

"You've got quite the sky here," she says as she bandages up my new tattoo.

"None of them matter. There is only one star that I really want. And tonight did not bring me any closer to him."

"The time will come. It is only a matter of time before you find him," she says.

I am not the only one who wants to destroy this man. My list may be longer than others, but one name is the same. Tori remembers this time better than I do, but there was a mole. He was the one who sold my grandfather out when he was at his weakest.

He sent a small ripple through The Family during that fatal time. The change in Grandfathers was hard on everyone, even my father, but other members were called out by the mole. He sold my mother out to our one rival. The man who hired the hit on my mother.

First I find the assassin who killed her. Then the man who ordered the hit. Then the man who sold us all out. The mole.

And that is why our tactics are so vicious. We never want another mole.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Author's Note<span>**

**A little bit of back story to the mysterious Six. And the best part is, there is more! Part of her mission was inspired from an episode of CSI: Miami. By the way, in case anyone is in need of a summer reading book, I have recently finished the second book of the **_**Legend**_** series by Marie Lu. It is very, very good so far, and I recommend it. Let me know what you guys are reading this summer! (Besides my stories, hopefully!) Please review!**

**Be brave, everyone!**


	7. Chapter 7

I do not own anything, just my ideas!

**Chapter 7**

FOUR

When I glance down at my hands, they are laced with deep shades of purple, blue, and green. I press my finger down on one particular bruise close to my wrist on my arm. Discomforting pains stream from the spot of contact. I continue to do this to the bruises on my arms slowly making my way to the faint marks on my face, particularly my jaw. I do not know why I persist in pressing deeper and bringing myself more pain. Perhaps that is the only thing reminding me that this is all real. Maybe it is the satisfaction of seeing something and proving that it is really there.

"You are only going to make them worse." Zeke says as he lays on his own cot next to mine. He, as well as everyone else, has bruises spotted around his body.

"I do not need a babysitter."

"But you do need an ice pack." All jokes aside, the limited jokes we manage here, he is right. I have another fight coming and I need to be ready for it.

Knives must have grown boring for Harrison and Six, because one day it all abruptly stopped. My brain hurt so much with all the information they kept shoving at us. Throwing knives was just the beginning, leading to different stab wounds and cuts. Every now and then, a quick anatomy lesson that always seems to go over my head is pushed our way. All I manage to absorb is where and where not it will kill. The details are muffled in a lost subconscious.

And Six was right. My hand healed in a matter of days. And in the time, as short as it was, my left side got stronger. So much that I occasionally try to hold back on the right side to keep my left side improving.

But then one day the knives were gone and punching bags lined the perimeter of the training room. It started out just learning the different moves, but that did not last long. The majority of the time is spent fighting _each other_. When you are not fighting, you have lifting weights, punching a bag, or running on a treading mill set on a ten percent elevation and going twenty-two miles per hour.

There is no place to even catch your breath.

Even with the dim lights and night's sleep wrapping its arms around me, I still cannot slow my breathing. I cannot tame my beating heart and allow my eyes to fall into deep slumbers.

When I do fall into a dreamless sleep, it lasts only a small moment because the morning bell has graced the room with its presence. Muffled moans and sighs come from even the better Fosters. This whole beating each other to a bloody pulp has grown old, but it is not like any of us have a choice.

When we walk into the training room, I see the usual set up. One big mat sits in the center, slightly elevated above the ground. It has small uplifts on the perimeter to keep us inside the whole time. There are large, black punching bags across the sides, and off on the other side of the room stands the training equipment. Harrison stands alone in the center of the fighting mat with a large board in his hands. Its back is facing us, but everyone knows what is written on it. Usually, Six stands next to Harrison or off to the side with a gun, but when I make a quick check of the room, she is not here.

Good, no one trying to slowly kill me.

Harrison flips the board over and says, "Here are the pairings for today. Usual rules apply, and the faster you get through these fights, the sooner this day ends."

He does not mention Six's absence, and the rest of us do not bother to ask.

I search the board for my name and find it last on the list. _Four & Peter. _I am not afraid of losing to him, but he is a dirty fighter. Actually, a dirty person all together. I try to make it a habit to stay away from him, but what else would you expect with a room full of criminals. One of them is bound to be dirty.

When Harrison clears the fighting mat for the first mat, I go to one of the punching bags to work on my left hit. And to think. Something about me and a punching bag clears my mind and allows me to really think. The rest of the room drowns out. Even the feeling in my hands as they make contact with the cold bag goes unnoticed.

_Peter._ He is cocky, but for some good reason. I have caught small, brief moments of his past fights. He attacks first, but he rarely goes on defense. He always takes a step before punching, so all I have to do is watch his feet before a swing.

I check over shoulder at the fight taking place right now. Two girls, one long and lean and the other built and stocky. I recognize the lean one as Christina. We have not shared many words with each other, but she is a loud enough person to get the gist. The bigger girl, The Tank I heard some other people call her, could knock Christina out with one punch, but Christina is fast. There are a few close calls, and while The Tank does not look like the smartest person, Christina is smart in her own way.

Maneuvering through a fighting ring is not one of them.

The Tank's fist meets Christina's lower jaw with a powerful blow. I turn back to my punching. I do not need to watch the rest of the fight to know what will be coming next. Christina is not weak, but she does not have strong shoulders and arms, probably due to the hours she must have spent in front of a computer. Instead of dodging the hits, she should have absorbed the power of them and used it against her opponent.

It is not my call and none of my business. I just have to focus on my own fight and myself.

I glance across the room and look at Peter. He sits at a weight machine, lifting more than his body is used to. Idiot. Straining his muscles like that will only make him weaker during the fight. But that is his problem.

Suddenly, I feel eyes on my back. I would ignore the feeling, but I just heard the door open and close. I wait a few minutes before I turn around and see Six standing at the mat with Harrison. She no longer stares at me, if she even was staring at me to begin with. She watches the fight going on right now with such an intensity, analyzing each detail. There is something different about her today, like that first day with the knives. She hides it well, I will give her that.

I bring my focus back on my punching bag. My knuckles already scream for a respite. It does not come; I know better than to stop when I need to push harder. So far, I have been undefeated in the ring, but so has Peter. We are the only two who have succeeded in winning every fight, which is probably why they paired us together. There is room for only one person at the top.

More fights come and go on the mat, and my name is coming next. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Six walking towards me. It amazes me how silently she walks, how each of her movements is clean and on purpose. Intentionally and consciously deliberate.

When Six is right next to me, she just stares. But not at me exactly.

"What was the first thing I taught _you_?" She asks me.

I do not stop punching when I reply, "What?"

Almost irritated, she says, "Your breathing." The day with the gun next to my head flashes back to me. I swiftly glance down to her hand where the mysterious mark was. It is still there, so I did not imagine it.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You are using that lesson now." I pause for a moment. "Anyone can apply a lesson to the initial application, but if you are really good you can apply it to other things. Your mind is a powerful tool, but only if it is working correctly."

"Thanks," I say with a frustrated tone. It was almost a compliment, I think. I keep punching the bag, expecting her to leave after this weird confrontation. But while it is weird, I get a strange satisfaction from it. She does not leave, and I do not expect her to leave. Everything she does is meaningful; she does not waste the breath of a casual conversation for nothing. There is something else.

As if on cue, she comes closer and says, "Go for the jugular. Hit his neck, and he will be down enough to get the upper hand."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I have my reasons."

"I'm sure you do. Just like there were reasons to a gun to my head and a knife to my hand."

Her eyes turn to ice. "He is a little too… cruel for my liking."

Internally, I laugh. It is calling the kettle black. "Is that not why you recruited him?"

"Don't get me wrong. Cruelty was a dish they served_ me_ since I was—" She stops, her voice almost making a hiccup. A moment, as small as it is, of discomposure crosses her face. But in a blink of an eye she collects the little pieces she lost and says, "Since my first day. But his cruelty is not the kind I particularly wish to have in a Family member, or even a Foster. There's no _off_ switch, not yet at least."

"And you can do that?" Even when I say it, I know there is no power behind it. And I already regret it.

"I would not question my persuasion abilities."

"But you want me to win."

"I would prefer it."

"What is the point?"

She does not reply right away. "I do not trust him. And if I don't like him, my opinion is taken very seriously. I do not need to prove myself to the others, but I do need justification for a few."

She turns to walk away, but I say, "Why now?"

Without looking back, she says, "People need to understand what The Family truly is... and how we grew in power."

Suddenly, my knees give out from a powerful blow, and I almost collide with the floor, but a strong hand grips my arm. The owner of the hand brings their other hand to my neck. It all happens so fast, I do not realize it is Six until she releases my arm but keeps the pressure of her elbow on my neck.

"His neck, remember. It is his weak point, and I would make sure it is not yours, too."

She stalks to the fighting mat, and I go back to hitting the punching bag. In minutes, Harrison calls mine and Peter's name. As I walk forward, I pass Six. In the smallest hint of a voice, she tells me, "Jugular."

Just as I thought, Peter attacks first. I remember to watch his feet, waiting for him to take a step cuing me to put up my arm for a block. It works several times in a row, and this just frustrates Peter. Instead of being cocky, he becomes angry. For a brief second, I recognize the look on his face. I know the anger he feels, but I also know that this kind of anger fades fast and is pointless, making Peter reckless.

_Jugular, go for the jugular. _

One block I make sends Peter across the mat, his feet desperately grasping for a grip to not fall. I take the opportunity and rush at him and bring my arm and clenched fist to his neck. His feet give out, leaving him vulnerable. After a few swift punches, he is knocked out. Nothing messy or laced with anger. The blow was purposely meant to win the fight and nothing else.

When I turn to look at Six, her face is blank, not showing any sign of any kind of emotion. The only thing are her bright eyes, moving around and calculating the scene in front of her. For a small, unexplainable moment, I want those blue eyes on me, approving my efforts, showing me anything.

Nothing comes, though. It is a stupid thought, and as I look at her, I know I am a fool for wasting my time with such hope.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Author's Note<span>**

**This update is a little (actually, very) overdue. Six months goes by really fast, and I am sorry for those who have wanted an update earlier. Some of you who read my other fanfic, FTS, know that I (tragically) lost my flash drive, and it had **_**everything**_** on it. I hope to get another chapter by the end of the week or two, but I have work and am traveling back to school for my next semester. The next chapter is supposed to begin something that will be very important in future chapters. Encouragement is always appreciated. Please review!**

**Be brave, everyone. **


	8. Chapter 8

I do not own anything, just my ideas!

**Chapter 8**

SIX

This family has a weird habit of waking up early.

The Grandfather sits at the head of a long table. In the different seats, direct members of The Family, our real family, sit. My cousins and great uncles talk among themselves as I sit quietly in my own seat. I am the only girl. It is normally tradition to only be among men in such meetings. But my father made the exception for me. My training passes all the people in this room by a long shot. I am a secret weapon, and only the people in this room know my true identity, my real existence.

The daughter of The Grandfather. The only heir.

The table is dark, polished wood. The ends curve in deliberate movements with swirls and cuts. The chairs we sit in match the table, excluding the chair my father sits in. His is larger, more polished and grander. He taps his finger idly on the arm of his chair. A large fire burns in a magnificent fire place to the side of the room. The long indented windows hold black night; even the moon is dark.

Our family meetings have to be in the early morning because it is the only time we can see each other before the day's events take hold. It is the only time all of us can be in the same place at the same time. I sit back in my seat, but I sit straight up. My eyes do not stop scanning the room, but they do focus in on the fire every so often.

My father begins the meeting, cutting straight to the point. "The mole is threatening to resurface."

The group stays quiet, silent murmurs between seats. "But, it has been years."

"One of our drug shipments was apprehended by another group. It was impossible to know the things they knew. They learned their lesson to not mess with us, but I am afraid that is just the beginning." He pauses for a moment. "We have a potential problem. The FBI's new director, Steven Black, was originally an agent who tried to follow us. Now, with more resources and a whole department to dedicate to it, he is using more power to hunt us down. This is the closest they are getting to us in our history."

"We can lead them off our trail. When we are done, they'll be chasing their own tails."

"No. That could buy us time, but we need to do this carefully. We do not have much intel on Black, but we have enough to know that he is smart enough."

One of my cousins speaks up, "I can work on the team…"

"No. I want Black. The others are merely puppets. He is the string master. And I want Six on this."

"What? But she…"

"Is unknown. No one outside of this room knows of her existence. Even fellow Family members, Fosters and adopted family, do not know who she really is. And she is the best we have."

I try to imagine what I would do in my father's place. First, I need to know all the information he knows. There is something he is holding back—I can tell. I cannot do the equation without knowing all the variables. Steven Black, director, is threatening us. But with what? It sounds like he wants to hunt us down, but it feels like there is more to it. And leading the FBI away sounds promising, but apparently it will only buy us time. Time for what?

"Are the Fosters ready for The Landscape?"

My eyes shoot open and back into focus. _The Landscape?_ He cannot be serious. They are still only in the first stage. And even with that, not one of them is ready to go into The Landscape.

I remember my first time in The Landscape. It was so intense, _so real._ All my years of training, and I still to this day cannot get through it perfectly. I am close, no doubt. There are only two people I have personally known that can go through it without a scratch. One is sitting next to me.

I look up to my father. "Grandfather, they are not ready, not even close."

"Not one? What are you doing in training?"

"Doing our job," Harrison speaks up.

"Not good enough. You are not pushing them enough. We need new people to assist you with Black."

"I can do it just fine," I say through gritted teeth. "I do not need new Fosters getting in the way."

My father slams his hands on the table and stands. His stature and power is almost overwhelming. "If you have not noticed, we have a _mole_! And the FBI is on our ass! I do not need someone who could be a threat to a mission."

He is right. With a mole in the midst reappearing, we need new meat that has not been affected to help keep the FBI away. The mole has appeared before, so we know none of these Fosters are not the mole. If trained right, these Fosters can be very powerful weapons and would not dare to betray us. But they need to be trained.

The Grandfather sits back down, calming his anger. The weight of his age, marked with gray flecked hair and the hint of darkness around his eyes, shows briefly. He brings a hand to his face. "We are a family, and people are threatening that. The threat is not here, but it is approaching. We need to get ready."

"What do we need to do?"

"Get them ready. Fast. Push them till they break. See what they are made of, and if that is worth it in this world." He looks at me in the eye, telling me only, "You know what you have to do."

"Yes." I need to be cruel. That is what he wants, but that is not the way I want to do this. There is a merciless cruel and a smart cruel. He wants me to train them the way he trained me. I can feel the little parts of my humanity slipping away. Ever since I got here, they put a gun in my hand and shown me how to shoot _and more_. They showed me how to survive at the price of someone else. Each day I feel myself falling further away into a dark, black hole. The thought of my mother's killer burns a fire in my soul, but the idea of my life without that burn makes me feel cold. After I kill him, what will become of me? Will I live out the rest of my life in The Family? I have to.

Maybe tomorrow I will be a ruthless trainer, but not today.

I do not know why I feel such a stupid pang of sympathy for the Fosters. They have no idea what makes me feel like I have to make their lives not completely feel like hell. I am not doing any favors by wanting to make their lives a little easier. All that will do is make them weak, and we need fighters ready to pounce when told. I need to push them until they break, just to see how hard I have to press. I need to show them what it is like to face death in the face, to have its cold arms wrap around you and then snap right back.

Feelings are illogical. Overthinking leads to unneeded problems, and that energy should be used for something more useful. Everyone has a choice, and this has been mine.

Maybe it is today, and what I must do tonight that causes these thoughts.

"We will discuss this further on another day. For now, I want those Fosters trained and more information on the agents the Director of the FBI has on us. We will need to lead them off our trail to buy us time. For now, you all can go."

The rest file out. I notice Harrison leads the pack. The Fosters will be waking in less than an hour. I fall behind, the last person excluding my father to get up. I linger for only a moment before I begin to leave.

"Six," my father calls out as the room empties. "Wait."

I fall into step back to where he now stands next to the fire place. He stares at the burning embers, almost ignoring me as if he did not just call me to him. The fire makes the scar on his nose more noticeable. Even though the room was just full of family, I can sense the loneliness he feels. And I know what he thinks of. It hurts every day, the absence of someone who was once there.

"If you keep me any longer, I will be late to train the Fosters."

"You'll be alone. The mission."

"I always do missions alone. The FBI does not scare me."

"That is not what I mean." He pauses. "You'll need to go undercover. I do not have much information right now—it is still being collected. But you are the only one I trust to do this right. You are the only person trained to do the job."

"Are you talking about the FBI or the mole?"

"Both. But the FBI is our main concern at the moment, but I have no doubt the mole is involved. He is not directly in The Family, but he is close enough. He could be in works with the FBI. And we need to get to the Director."

"What were you thinking?"

"Everyone has a weak point. Mr. Black has a short list. His wife is no longer on it due to their pending divorce. The man is an only child, with a dead father and a mother out of the country. That leaves his son. You need to apprehend him through the son."

"What?"

"The details are not planned out yet, and I do not expect you to go out until after you train the Fosters. But…"

"Be ready," I finish for him.

"There is no one I trust more than you." This is the closest form of love I receive from him.

"Yes, Grandfather."

I begin to walk out. The assignment does not frazzle me. It is something else. Every day that passes, it only causes me more anger. It is just another day my mother's killer lives another day of their damned life. Training the Fosters slowed my hunt down, but this mission… When will any of it end?

"I'll see you tonight at dinner," he tells me.

I stop in my tracks. _Did he forget? How could he forget?_ I turn to face him, the appetite for our weekly dinner completely gone.

"I thought dinner was changed this week."

"Why would it be moved?"

"You know why. It is the same every six months. Tonight is when we see _him_."

"Ohh, I am thinking about changing it to once a year."

"What? Just a year ago you changed it from once a month to once every six months. Why do you keep changing it?" I feel anger rising inside me, but I try to push it down. Both of them were the ones to teach me to control my anger, especially in moments of vulnerability.

"It is not healthy."

"I don't understand."

"We need to start letting go."

"He's _family!_ How can you possibly walk away from him like that?" All this family holds onto in this hole of darkness is our strong bond with each other. Without it, without The Family to protect, there is no reason to what we do. How can we hold ourselves to such standards, but turn our backs on our former leader? What does that say about us?

"He's gone, Tris. The man we both knew is not there anymore."

"So you are going to abandon him? Just like that?"

"I cannot afford distractions like that. The Family is under scrutiny; the government is slowly catching up. We need to remind everyone that…"

"That we are a bunch of killers. You are forgetting the basis this killing group is based on… Family." He does not reply. Deep down, I do not blame him, but pity does not give him an excuse. "I guess you will be eating alone tonight."

"You are only making yourself weak, allowing that kind of vulnerability."

"He did not turn his back on me, and I will not turn my back on him."

"He thought you were a bastard child." A low blow, and only he, The Grandfather of The Family, could create such a harsh one.

"But he accepted me. And I intend to do the same." I make a swift turn, but before I leave I return my father the favor. "You must mean a _bastard's_ child."

* * *

><p>"He is a little too… cruel for my liking."<p>

He is. I can see Peter stabbing someone in the stomach just for the fun of it, not the necessary of a job. I can see the twisted way his mind works, finding motives to ridiculous actions. I predict unplanned action and petty things like jealousy and vanity getting the better of him. I already see what possible power can do to him.

He needs to be broken and then put back together to fit the mold I want him to be. There is potential, but left alone it could be dangerous.

"Is that not why you recruited him?"

"Don't get me wrong. Cruelty was a dish they served_ me_ since I was—" I catch myself before I say something stupid. Instead, I say, "Since my first day. But his cruelty is not the kind I particularly wish to have in a Family member, or even a Foster. There's no _off_ switch, not yet at least."

"And you can do that?"

"I would not question my persuasion abilities."

"But you want me to win."

"I would prefer it."

"What is the point?"

I want to show the others that Peter is not the one to go on the assignment, or any kind of assignment. Not yet. He is too independent and selfish. He is not near ready to be a family member.

"I do not trust him. And if I don't like him, my opinion is taken very seriously. I do not need to prove myself to the others, but I do need justification for a few."

* * *

><p>"Beg me to kill you. It will make your worthless life less painful," I whisper with a deathly tone into Peter's ear.<p>

The dumbass had the nerve to try and jump me.

After he lost to Four in their fight, all the Fosters went to do speed and agility and weight lifting. When training was over and the room cleared out, Peter stayed behind. I will give the shit something, it was decently thought out. Except for the part about attacking me.

"You helped him! You made me lose the fight!"

He lays on the floor on his belly, the weight of my own on his back. I hold one of the knives I keep on my forearm against his neck with my free hand gripping his hair.

"And this is what you were going to do about it? You are pathetic. If it was up to me, I would kill you myself."

"You wouldn't."

"Call my bluff. I could get away with it, if I wanted." It is true. "Now give me a reason to not cut you from ear to ear."

Instead of giving him time to answer, I swing around, pull him up, and press him against the wall. I twist his shoulders and hear a snap. A shout of pain escapes his mouth. I shove my knife into the wall just above his shirt, pinning it and him to the wall. I pull out a gun and point it at him.

"My shoulder!" He screams.

"It is just dislocated." I shove my arm to put it back into place. He screams again. I point the gun back at his head. "You need to understand where you stand."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the fighting mat.

I pull the knife out and say, "Go over there."

We both walk to the mat. In minutes, he is bloody and down. I have small marks on my fore arms and along my neck, but nothing major. I grab an ice pack as I half drag him back to the dorm room. When I toss him back in, the other Fosters stare at me in disbelief.

I do not bother to watch their shocked faces, because the day is almost over and there is somewhere else I need to go tonight.

* * *

><p>I travel to The House and go to my room. In the corner is a crate full of normal clothes. I usually keep these clothes when I need a disguise or when there is a time my assassin clothes do not work. Most of the contents are what is left of my mother's clothes. They are recent additions. I choose a pair of worn jean shorts and a black tank. The converse on my feet feel unusual. Before I leave, I grab a flannel to keep me warm when the summer night cools and to shelter some of my tattoos.<p>

I do not bother to see my father before I leave. Our last conversation, argument actually, still burns in me. I know the two of us will get over the other's words and find a way to forgive each other. That, or we will bury the fight and deal with its pain at a different time.

The warm air is humid, and I take my shortcuts to get to my destination. I tie the flannel around my waist, my tattoos along my back and shoulders showing. When I see the long pillars and warm greeting sign, I put the flannel back on.

I walk in and see the same brunette receptionist sitting behind the desk reading a magazine. When I reach the counter, I say, "Hi, I'm—"

"The usual?" She asks.

"Room H 21-8."

"It's been a while, hasn't it? Don't you usually have your father with you?"

"Yes, well, he couldn't make it."

"Too bad," she says as she hands me my Visitors Pass. "He's in his room. He has not had any visitors since you last came." Of course.

As I walk down the hallway and make a turn, a strange memory comes to me.

_Two men are in front of me. One sits on the other side of the table I sit at. He has a sharp, but fading scar across his nose. The other man, the older one, stands in a corner. His arms are folded, and I can see a large tattoo peeking from under his sleeve. _

"_Would you like to come with us?" _

"_Where?" I reply, my childhood innocence hanging on a brink. _

"_To a place where we can teach you things. You like to learn things, don't you?" The older man looks at me with narrowed eyes. _

"_What kind of things?" _

"_Things that most people cannot handle." This should scare me, but it only makes me more powerful. _

_I smile softly. "Why me?"_

"_Because you are special. And someone hurt you. You should repay them the favor."_

"_What did they do to me?"_

"_They put you here. They took you away from your family. And we promise, no one will hurt you like that again." _

_There are moments when the older man's gaze goes out of focus, but it snaps back. This battle goes on the whole conversation._

I arrive to room H 21-8, and the cloud of the distant memory fades away. I place a hand on the door and turn it softly. The second I look in, his eyes meet mine. Even in my silent pursuit, his training—however gone from him—is imprinted in him, and it will not go away any time soon.

There he is. The only other man that can go through The Landscape like my father. Even under his long sleeve shirt, I can see the tattoos on his wrist.

Grandfather.

His eyes focus on me, but they do not recognize me.

A part of me saddens at the thought, that he does not recognize me. But I learned a while ago to accept the way his eyes strain at my face with no success in placing it. I still remember my father's words: _It is not his fault he does not know your face. _

"My dear," he says, "Could you tell me where I am?"

I can see the confusion in his eyes. He tries to hide the small fear behind the question. I do not blame him, it would be frightening to wake up every day and have no recollection of the things around me. He braves a tough exterior, just like he always has.

I open the window blinds that shows a small part of the Chicago skyline. "We are in Chicago. This is a nursery home."

There is the slightest sense of defeat in the man of his caliber laying in a funeral home. "Can you tell me what day it is?"

"It is a Wednesday in early September." I continue to tell him the year, the president, and the most recent Super Bowl and World Series winner.

"Thank you, uh…"

"Tris."

"Tris." His eyes narrow on me, and for a second I think he recognizes me. "You do not look like a nurse."

"Uh, no," I want to tell him the truth. I want to remind him of all that is between us and all he has done. But that would do no good. It would only confuse him, and in a not long amount of time it will be lost anyway. "I am visiting someone, and they are asleep. I am just roaming around to kill some time."

"Who are you visiting?"

"My grandfather. You would not know him; he tends to keep to himself."

"You seem like a wonderful girl for visiting him."

"I try my best." I should leave it at that, but like he always did to me, I decide to push him harder and further than he probably should go. "Do you have family that will visit you?"

"No. I—I think that." He focuses away, digging deep into his dwindling memory. "I have a son."

He says it almost like a question.

I remember his voice so powerful, but it is now uncertain. "He will come see me."

It is strange watching the man who helped me train for years, just sit there with no clue. With his memory, a part of who he is has become lost. He can lose himself, but that can be good and bad. He has the possibility to start a new, but it does not last long because that new person is stripped from his memory. It is not as severe as other patients, but I can tell he has gotten worse. He does not recognize me or himself, but he is aware of things around him. Maybe he has the chance to recreate his own world to live in each day, second, minute.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Author's Note<span> **

**Let's play a game! I do this in my other story, and I want to do it in this story too. I put a quote, whether it is from a song, movie, TV show, book, or any kind of media, and you all try to guess what it is. I try to do at least one, but there may be more. Those who guess correctly will get a shout out. There are five quotes in this chapter. **

**If you did not catch on, Six's grandfather has Alzheimer's. I do not plan on having him in the story very often, but he will be reappearing again. I am starting classes again, so updates, like usual, are not very predictable. Please review!**

**Be brave, everyone!**


	9. Chapter 9

I do not own anything, just my ideas!

**Chapter 9**

FOUR

I wake up unusually refreshed. I stare down at the bruises on my arms and nearly choke on my own breath. Gone. Practically every last mark and scratch on my body is fading away. I have to look hard and long at my skin to notice the old markings. Even scars that made their way onto my skin before I came here are dwindling to nothing.

The room is dark and silent; everyone is deep asleep, but my curiosity is growing inside me. When I stand, my muscles are not sore or stiff. I lightly jump up and down to start my blood flowing, and it only strengthens me. In fact, I could go for a run right now. A sprint. A marathon.

"Would you lay down, you idiot," Zeke groans on the cot next to me.

"Do you feel any different?" I ask. I cannot be the only one who feels this strange way.

"Yeah, when you wake me before Harrison, it's called anger."

"No, man, I am serious."

"I am, too. Lay down before we have to wake up again."

I lay down, but my mind is buzzing too much to fall asleep. I try and focus on when this feeling really started. I guess the past few days have felt different. As if my mind and body are thirsting for information and exertion. I remember feeling eager for my fight yesterday, and relished in the victory that came with it. I have actually been taking what Harrison and Six have taught us and eagerly applied it. And I feel stronger, but I have not done any different kind of training since I got here. So what has changed?

I only get a few minutes with my thoughts before a universal alarm goes off in the room, turning on an assortment of lights and waking everyone inside.

"I swear, I closed my eyes for a second," Zeke moans to himself.

Minutes later, we are all laced up and ready to get to work. My anticipation surprises me, and now Zeke takes notice.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I'm fine."

"No. Fine walked out the door when you woke me up before the alarm."

"I just… feel different, okay? Don't you feel it?"

"I feel tired."

When we walk into the training room, the fighting ring is gone. Replacing it is a table, board, and chairs.

An hour later, I am sitting in a biology class with a twist on stabbing. It is mostly boring, but I catch myself being more attentive than I normally would.

"Our bodies are strange things. An inch is the difference between a paper cut and bleeding out," Harrison says in his normal, booming voice. "This is also useful for when you torture someone."

I was never a fan of school, the few years I was there. And when I look at the others, dropping out seems like a career starter they did too. While I hate school, I do enjoy learning. Useful things. Things I can use. Part of me wonders if The Family is at all concerned about teaching us all these things. I wonder if anyone has ever tried to use what they learned against The Family.

Six is now talking. "—cutting here, along the neck. Twist right there and you puncture the esophagus. Blood will pour into the throat, killing your victim and silencing them so you can get away."

She wears a smirk. Deadly, as if she's done it many times before.

"—any tool, if used correctly, can—"

Hours later, and we are still going over stabbing when a lunch break is called. At this point, my attention is ceasing to exist, even with the extra oomph. But after we eat, and Harrison and Six bring out little dummies to practice on, my attention refocuses. Harrison says some engineer made them up to be almost like a real person, but not exactly. It is just for practice. It feels childish, but deep down I know basics are important. But I do not need basics. I do not need a biology lesson.

And yet, I still craze the information to make my mind and body stronger. I cannot explain it.

I catch Six's normal daggered eyes staring me down from the distance. Normally, her gaze would send my mind into chaos. My whole entirety would be under examination and almost burst from the appraisal. I would feel at a loss of control, and find myself in a desperate need to get it back. My perspective would get lost in a sea of gray. Every nerve would be put at end and my insides ruptured at the very thought.

But now it feels different. I do not know when it started, but now her stare almost… calms me. As if her stare is not made of daggers and does not want to disarm me, but is reassuring. It is confident. Stern. Insistent… Beautiful.

My dummy, who has been "dead" for a while, beeps loudly as if whining about the knife that has been stuck inside it longer than it should. My thoughts have drifted into dangerous waters. A foolish area. If there is one thing The Family does not tolerate, is wasted time and resources.

My attention zones in on Six who stands behind Christina, the tall hacker—fast but not exactly strong—who is doing her best to practice the neck slashing trick. There are not any clocks in the training room, but I can tell it is late, almost late enough for training to be over. Probably waiting for Christina to complete her…

Six slaps Christina across the face out of nowhere.

A peculiar thought crosses my mind that makes me chuckle to myself: Six must not have many friends.

"Focus," Six nearly sneers.

"You—" Christina starts.

Six looks around and notices the attention of the room has fallen on the two of them. She takes a quick look at Harrison and then stares down at the floor. She does not look flustered, a little frustrated, but something tells me there is a plan being set in motion.

But that is how it always is.

Six grabs Christina's arm and drags her to the room we sleep in. They are only in there for a few minutes, then reappear.

Once they come back, Christina joins us in the middle and Six and Harrison go in front as if to make an announcement.

"The next stage of training is mental." _Is that not what we are already doing?_ "It will truly test you in ways that you have never been before."

Someone snickers in the back.

At first, I think it is in my mind, or that the sound might have come from me. But I am not suicidal enough to test Six or Harrison. I look around to see if the others heard it, but they are unmoving. I almost dismiss it until Six's eyes shoot up and find the small sound. She walks straight up to Christina.

"Something funny?"

Christina gears up courage that I have never seen in her before. "Aren't we already being tested?"

"True, you are being tested. But whatever nightmares you think lay before you are dreams compared to what I come from."

A shudder rushes through me, and Christina must feel it too. Still, she looks up to Six and says, "So we just prepare for the worst? What is the point of doing all this when we are set to fail? Shouldn't we get some kind of incentive?"

Six steps close to Christina, and even though Six is shorter, Christina looks small. "Your incentive is your pathetic life. Do not forget who we are. And what we do. The things we are capable of."

_Kill_ my first instinct tells me. But there is something more behind her words.

"What about a deal? I am sure The Family likes making deals."

"Alright," Six says, almost amused. Almost as if she could have planned it. "You have my attention. What are the stakes?"

"We compete against each other and the winner gets an award. An advantage in training. A real bed to sleep on. Actual food. Something."

Six gives a fox smile. "What about going outside?"

My jaw nearly drops to the floor. _Outside?_ I cannot even remember the last time I have been out in the open air. A desperate need consumes me. A competitive drive fills every nerve inside my body. I have to win. I will win. I will dominate.

"Harrison," Six barks. Even with family, she is cut-throat. "Get the poles."

Harrison crosses the room to a keypad. He enters a long, extravagant code that brings up a screen. A few more discrete buttons are pressed, and then ten poles rise from openings in the floor. They go up nearly twenty feet in the air, but too thick for me to wrap my hands around. Probably a foot in diameter.

"Because there are more people than poles, you'll compete in two separate heats," Six says. "Each of you will be suspended on the pole, forced to hold on. If you touch the ground, you're out. Top five in each round will move to a final round. The last person holding on wins."

It sounds easy enough, but I actively taught myself not to trust people. Especially The Family.

Six and Harrison separate us into two groups; I stand next to Zeke in ours. Because we are in the second group, we are forced off to the side to watch the first group go. They all climb up to the top of their respective wooden poles and each wraps their body a different way. Strategy. That is how someone is going to win this.

And by someone, I mean myself.

Minute tick away, and half of the people have fallen. Their faces read pain, agonizing. Part of me wonders if something is laced in the wood to add an extra challenge. I notice the lighter ones are holding on the best, probably because they do not have much to hold up.

The top five are finally decided, and the next group walk over to the poles. I climb up and secure myself around it to not fall. Immediately, I feel the discomfort I saw in the first group. It is not exactly an easy activity to take part in. But I have been in life and death situations where I have to hold on for dear life, similar to now. It comes with being a serious criminal.

I notice Zeke next to me slides down some. He regroups, but it is not the same.

And I knew the first day I did my bad deed, that this life was with me forever. Sometimes it would feel like being stuck in a labyrinth. But that is what life is. You think about how you'll _escape_ one day, and how awesome it will be, and imagining that future keeps you going, but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present. I guess it is the same with The Family. Sure, we are all just trying to get through training, but what happens when it is all said and done. Part of me believes we will not truly escape anything.

Zeke hits the floor below me, and when I look around, I see I am among only five left on the poles.

_That was easy enough_ I cannot help but think to myself.

I slide down, and the other nine finalist meet in a circle.

Harrison speaks up, "This is it. Last one holding on wins."

We each go to a pole and climb to the top. I find myself on the end with Christina to my left.

Again, minutes tick away, but this time I feel my muscles tighten and my grip feel weak. It is manageable, but still difficult and painful. I glance at Christina next to me. Her grip occasionally falters every few seconds. Soon enough it is just her and me.

I grit, my strength slowly falling out of my grip. But not enough. Because for too long I have been the best and no one can beat me. And I do not plan on that stopping anytime soon.

I look down at Six, staring at me. Her eyes jump between Christina and I, as if analyzing more than just the way we both grip our different poles. She and Harrison move backwards, allowing them to have a private conversation together. Even as they talk, Six's eyes do not waver from us. Then they land solely on me. Analyzing me, but there is something missing. A lack of tension. Like she knows what the outcome will be.

I hear Christina's feet hit the ground. I had not noticed her slip down until now. But then another, more powerful thought rushes through me.

I won.

I practically free fall off the pole and stride to the front of the crowd. My nerves tingle with the anticipation of going outside.

Six walks up to stand in front of me. "Alright, Four, you win. I will be taking you outside."

I just nod my head and begin to walk forward. Her arm shoots up to stop me. "But you will get your reward later."

I feel a mix of anger and disappointment. What I find most peculiar is the fact that disappointment is the stronger of the two. "What's later?"

"It is when I get to it. I have some business to take care of and I will be gone the next few days." She turns and grips me on the shoulder, digging into my collar. Sharp pains rush through my body, and I feel my knees buckle. "And I do not have to explain myself to you."

She looks around.

"Training is over. Go!"

The other Fosters leave the room, leaving me with Six and Harrison.

"We could throw him in The Landscape," Harrison says.

"No. Not yet."

I am about to ask what The Landscape is, but hold my tongue. Questions are not something exclusively popular here. And I know well enough that even if I asked, they would not answer.

"I'll take care of the poles," Harrison says, walking away.

I move my attention to Six, who just stares at me. She says, "You did well."

"Thanks," I say, almost surprised. But I have to try hard to hold back a smile.

"Do not get cocky, though," she says more stern, the real Six I have grown to know coming back out. "A common flaw in human beings."

"Flaw?"

"Among many."

"Really?"

"I, for a long time, have learned to read people. I have found a way to know them better than they know themselves. They are glass. Easy to see through and incredibly breakable. You see, humans are vulnerable because they are capable of getter hurt. Finding out how to hurt them is my job."

I give her a look. "Cause we are a bunch of criminals here, huh."

"It is more than that. And you would be wise to learn that."

She begins to walk away, but I am not ready to be done. "Or what?"

Six stops and turns. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but closes.

"I have to go. I will be back in a few days, and I will take you outside," she tells me. "Till then, follow Harrison. And pay attention. This stage will be more important than the last."

"Why?"

"Because you can train your body, and it will respond. Your mind is a little more difficult, more divergent. Training your brain… it is different. And can get tricky. Your body is only as strong as your head."

* * *

><p><span><strong>Author's Note<strong>

**I apologize that I do not update this story as much as I should. I have some really big stuff planned, some of it will take a while to get to, but it is going to be huge. I really like this story, as it is not like others in the fandom. Please review!**

**Be brave, everyone!**

* * *

><p><span><strong>QUOTES<strong>

**1). **_I cannot do the equation without knowing all the variables._** –**_**The Avengers**_**, film**

**2). **_I need to push them until they break, just to see how hard I have to press. _**–**_**Divergent, **_**novel**

**3). **_It hurts every day, the absence of someone who was once there. _**–**_**Legend, **_**novel**

**4). **_To a place where we can teach you things… Things that most people cannot handle. _**–**_**The Final Girl**_**, film trailer**

**5). **_It is not his fault he does not know your face. _**–"Afire Love" by Ed Sheeran **

**Congratulations to: Divergent Lover 9903 , Fourtris4646, and Random Person (Guest), BK2U**

**There are three (film, book, book) quotes in this chapter. **


	10. Chapter 10

I do not own anything, just my ideas!

**Chapter 10**

SIX

"That smart mouth is going to get you killed," I spit at Christina the second we are closed away in the room. Her cheek is red from where I slapped her, and her pride is also showing dismay at the action.

"Why the hell did you—"

"You like honesty, almost to the point of not having a filter. Being honest with you, slapping sense into you, is my way of being true to you. It is the only way to get to you. To get you to listen."

Part of me admires the trait, but like I said, it is dangerous. You have to be decently brave to be honest all the time. I am not talking about telling the truth. No one does that. I mean being honest about yourself to the people around you. Especially to the person inside you.

She backs up, taking in my words and seeing the truth behind them.

"Wh-What else do you know?" Curiosity. Comes with being honest.

"We know you graduated high school early, two years, right? Do not bother telling me, I already know."

"Plenty of people graduate high school early. That is not that hard to guess."

"I assume it is not hard to guess that tuition is not cheap, and you needed fast cash given that your family is not exactly… supportive. It was simple at first, and real… cute. But something happened while you were hacking into one too many accounts, websites, top secret files. You began to attract the attention of a few people who were afraid you were going to actually tap into your potential."

"What kind of people?"

"It does not matter now. You grew confident, and that helped you get better. I have seen plenty of hackers work their magic, but nothing like you. And to think, you were wasting it at college," I pause, letting her take in the rare compliment. "You were a psych minor, correct? And Electrical Engineer major?"

"Yeah."

My own curiosity comes up. I have led her down this path and I intend to get as much information as I can, especially if I plan to give her the contents of a black box that sits in my pocket. "Why psychology? It has nothing to do with computers."

"But it does with people. And I think people are fascinating. A computer can only do so much before humans get in the way. Both have glitches, and a computer's is more tangible. A human's is not."

"Interesting," I say, but I could guess as much. With this knowledge, she will do well in the next stage. People are more than physical bodies. They are thinking, living souls.

I reach into my pocket and retrieve the little black box that holds several golden yellow pills. They are new—not even on the black market, yet. I have taken my fair share of the drug, but very few—an extremely limited—number of people have experienced its effects. My father was not exactly excited when I suggested it, but he wanted training to go faster. And while I understand his thinking, not wasting the drug on _all_ the Fosters, I do not see harm in helping give a boost to the ones with the most potential. After all, it was the same type of thinking that caused him to give it to me.

"Take this." I hand her a golden yellow pill with mini spikes almost unseen unless you look close.

"What is it?"

"Something new."

She eyes it suspiciously, not trusting me or what the little pill on her finger can do. I do not blame her. She is not meant for going out into the streets, but the right training could change that. Not this kind of training, not really. The real test that gets Fosters ready is the Landscape, and whether anyone wants to admit it or not, the yellow pill will help that process.

"I know it is hard to trust me," I say. "But just do it. Friends are not common in a world I live in. In fact, they do not exist. Alliances. They do. They lead to the greatest of victories or an ultimate defeat. So believe me or not, this is for your own good."

She looks suspicious, still not taking the pill.

"If it makes you feel better to put a name to it, we like to call it Z."

"Z?"

"For Zeus. I do not come up with the names, but I have taken it. And I am still alive, if that is what you are so scared of."

"You?" She gives me a pointed look.

"Yes," I tell her, then look down. "We are in the same game, just different levels. It is not even close to easy, and it will only get harder. So help yourself."

Part of me speaks the truth, another part is only saying what she needs to hear to do what I say. Right now, I cannot tell the difference.

I continue to look away, but out of the corner of my eye, I see her take the pill.

"You will not notice the change until it is already happening. It will be fast, so do not push it away. Embrace it. Challenge it… I want you to challenge _me_."

"What?"

"Just trust your instincts. Be honest."

"Okay?" She says, then again, more stern. "Okay."

She blinks a couple times then moves slightly in her shoes. I can see the effects taking control of her body.

We both walk back to the training room. The others try to act like they are not staring, but I know they are all wondering what happened in there. Christina disappears into the crowd of people while I go up to the front with Harrison.

"The next stage of training is mental. It will truly test you in ways that you have never been before."

Someone snickers in the back. I know the person behind the sound without looking up. The pill is working faster than I thought. I let the room absorb the sound, let it sink in. Then I make my way to Christina.

"Something funny?"

Christina has a fire in her eyes. Her smirk is all fox. I always knew she had a smart mouth, but for a while she could keep it in check. "Aren't we already being tested?"

"True, you are being tested. But whatever nightmares you think lay before you are dreams compared to what I come from."

I purposely do not look at the scar on my hand, but I think about it. I think about the countless hours used to torture me, just to make my body learn how to not feel. And all the times I dream of my mother's death.

Christina backs up some, sensing the darkness behind my words, but still says, "So we just prepare for the worst? What is the point of doing all this when we are set to fail? Shouldn't we get some kind of incentive?"

I take a step closer to Christina. "Your incentive is your pathetic life. Do not forget who we are. And what we do. The things we are capable of."

That new confidence running thought her veins, that came from a drug The Family created. A drug that will make us even better, more untouchable, than we already are.

"What about a deal? I am sure The Family likes making deals."

"Alright, you have my attention. What are the stakes?"

"We compete against each other and the winner gets an award. An advantage in training. A real bed to sleep on. Actual food. Something."

"What about going outside?"

* * *

><p>He does not notice it, but I zone in on Four as he and Christina fight to be the winner. My eyes were dance between him and Christina, but he holds my attention. I would not have planted the seed inside Christina, or allowed this little competition, or even put the idea of going outside into the mix if I did not know what the final outcome would be.<p>

I can feel Harrison's tightness next to me. I know he does not exactly like this little idea of mine.

"This is a waste of time," he puffs under his breath.

"Quiet," I tell him, nodding my head to some Fosters next to us.

I take some backwards steps, nudging him to follow with me.

I keep my eyes forward and my voice soft. "Is there a problem?"

"You know what The Grandfather said. He wants training to get harder, more intense, faster. Playing games with the Fosters will not help anything."

"He wants them prepared for the Landscape. Why not help one of them get a step closer to it. And give them a boost to work harder."

"But they think they just gained some power."

"They _think_ they have control. That's the point."

"What have you been up to?"

"That is between the Grandfather and I." I do not think that even Harrison knows about Z, and it is best to keep it as much of a secret as possible.

I notice Christina is beginning to slowly slip down. They both have lasted a decently long time, holding on with all their will power and little something extra. Four, who sometimes worries too much about his surroundings, is locked in. He has focused his eyes on something on the ground, and he does not waver from it. He has a mind that is different from the others. He could easily be a hacker, similar to Christina, but his pure strength and knowledge on the streets provide a better use. Still, it is not common to have someone who can smart all around.

But someone that smart can be dangerous.

I see Christina hit the floor before I hear the thud. Four's eyes snap out of their trance. He releases from his tight grip and free falls onto the ground. Everything about him—his face, stance, and eyes—scream with energy. I never pegged him as a person who likes to stay underground and in dark places. He is the kind of person who feels free in fresh air, running on grounds that do not end with four walls.

I can tell the others that came close are disappointed. Peter even gives me a pointed look, but my own look sends him further into himself. I walk up to Four and say, "Alright, Four, you win. I will be taking you outside."

He nods his head and begins to walk forward, as if he thinks he is going to go outside right now. I hold back a smile because I think it is hilarious when other assume. I bet they all thought that the prize would be right after the competition. No. The thought that keeps me from laughing is an angry one. How dare he think he can just waltz around? Just because he won a little competition does not mean he is any more special.

I throw my arm up to stop him. He is bigger than me, but I have the element of surprise, and he stops. "But you will get your reward later."

The happiness and pride in his face melts away. Almost disappointed. "What's later?"

"It is when I get to it. I have some business to take care of and I will be gone the next few days." I turn and grip him at the shoulder, digging into the pressure point at the collar bone. "And I do not have to explain myself to you."

Besides the fact that I have spent enough time with the Fosters today, I do have other things I have to do. (But if I must admit, there is something about this group—I cannot put a finger on it—that makes training them bearable.) I woke up this morning with a file folder slid under my bedroom door, waiting for me. A new job. A new target.

I look around at all the Fosters staring at me. "Training is over. Go!"

They leave the room, except Four, who is adamant about the details of his prize. Harrison, who still seems in a pissy mood, says, "We could throw him in The Landscape."

"No. Not yet." He is crazy. Four is the only one that is close to being ready among the group, but sending him in there would only diminish the work I did today. Besides, the key to passing The Landscape is in the next stage.

"I'll take care of the poles," Harrison says, walking away.

With Harrison gone, it is only Four and I. For a split second, I almost take back my words. I would not mind taking him outside now, even if it means moving back the timeline of my next assignment. But I end the thought before it starts. Instead, I settle with someone even stranger.

"You did well."

"Thanks," he says, but there is suspicion behind it. Still, his expression loosens.

"Do not get cocky, though." _Do not let your guard down. _ "A common flaw in human beings."

"Flaw?"

"Among many." More will come in the next stage. People are a combination of flaws sewn together with good intentions.

"Really?"

"I, for a long time, have learned to read people. I have found a way to know them better than they know themselves. They are glass. Easy to see through and incredibly breakable. You see, humans are vulnerable because they are capable of getter hurt. Finding out how to hurt them is my job."

He gives me a look, but it is purely hypocritical. I know he has hurt others before, probably more than he can count. He has had this coming for a long time, and that should have been enough time to come to terms with it. "Cause we are a bunch of criminals here, huh."

"It is more than that. And you would be wise to learn that."

I try to walk away, but deep down, I want him to challenge me. And he does, so distinctly. "Or what?"

I stop and turn. This is more than any kind of family, and the repercussions run deeper than a few bruises. It is forever. As children, we flinch at the sight of blood, not realizing it means family, loyalty and is the essence of life. But for all its virtue there's the inevitable reality that blood is often a violent reminder that everything can be taken away in a blink of an eye.

I want to rip off my shirt and show him the tattoos all over my back. Show him that, at first it is not easy, but you have to say goodbye and forget them. Releasing them from this world and locking the door against their return. I have never lost sleep over the things I have done, but that is because I do not have my wishbone where my back bone ought to be.

I do not tell him these things, of course.

"I have to go. I will be back in a few days, and I will take you outside. Till then, follow Harrison. And pay attention. This stage will be more important than the last."

"Why?"

"Because you can train your body, and it will respond. Your mind is a little more difficult, more divergent. Training your brain… it is different. And can get tricky. Your body is only as strong as your head."

* * *

><p>The Family has an arsenal of assassins to be bought for independent jobs. My father prefers that I am not listed among them. Because I am a secret, only very special clients are offered my services. And even then, they do not know who I <em>truly<em> am. Just a contract killer who normally only works within The Family.

Typically, I only work under The Grandfather, but my most recent assignment comes from a powerful friend and business partner of my father's in Mexico.

His name is Marc Cardoso, and he was my father's friend's partner, until he decided to work alone. Even thousands of miles away, you cannot just leave. And the bloody way he left resulted in many people putting a price on his head. He lives in a mansion with dozens security guards and unlimited lovers that both pay by the hour. He is rather large, eating and drinking all day.

A few days ago, I packed a bag with money, my Mexican passport, and all the little essentials someone like me would need during such travels. Anything else I needed, like the ingredients to a specific poison, I received from a contact I met once I arrived. Ever since then, I have watched the house and created a plan of attack.

I have to give him some credit, he does not make it easy. Even when he drinks heavily all day, his mind is remains level. (But creating a tolerance and becoming almost immune is not exactly a difficult task—one I learned to do in my training.) He surrounds himself with enough people and resources to make most people back away, but I am not like most people. It can be done, with the right approach.

It is the morning of the kill, and I look unrecognizable in the mirror. I have dark, exaggerated makeup on. My hair is completely down, and the length surprises me. Because my hair is always up and out of the way, in the rare moments like this, I am shocked at how long it is. The only note I can say about my clothes is that there is not much of it. Black sheer and silk. If I want to blend in with the whores he has, I have to play the part.

I wait until the car full with new girls circles the drive to make my move. I blend in easy enough, and make my way inside with the rest of them. An extravagant courtyard sits in the center of the house, with a waterfall that falls into a large pool and a tank of sharks standing high next to it. Some of the girls bang on the glass, sending the fish into speedy circles. They think it is funny, but I see the danger. I secretly roll my eyes at the scene. I am a lot smaller, mostly curves, than the other girls, but I am smart enough to get what I want.

Cardoso sits on a large chair surrounded by girls. He calls over one of his guards and whispers something in his ear. A few moments later, he gets up and leads the crowd of women inside for food and drinks.

In situations like this, I like to step out of myself. I turn on the charm and become a completely different person. I sashay my way closer to Cardoso, passing all the girls who are all legs and large chested. I grab a seat at a long table with an assortment of meats, fruits, and breads. I am close enough to talk to Cardoso.

I start off with a large drink in front of me. Sangria, filled to the brim. I make a note that Cardoso sees me out of the corner of his eye and drink the entire glass. He raises his eyebrows at me, thinking it should have an effect, but I have built a tolerance against an assortment of drugs, and I took a special yellow pill before I came.

He zones in on me. "What's your name?"

"Whatever you want it to be," I say softly, making him lean closer. I have his attention. "But for now, call me Six."

"I like you."

"I like you, too," I say. "So, why sharks?"

"Sharks are bloodthirsty, like me. One drop will make them go crazy."

He continues to eat immensely while I giggle and flaunt like the other girls. On the other end, two girls think it is amusing to grab wine bottles and drink straight from them. Except they obviously miss their mouths and the alcohol pours down onto them. With the distraction, I grab the ring on my finger with poison hidden behind the false jewel, and pour the contents into his glass. It will not kill him, only slow his brain down.

The effect is almost immediate, and with a bat of my eyelashes, he takes myself and of few other girls off to a bedroom.

I walk in last and shut the door. There are shadows under, which means guards are just outside the room. As I walk over to the over-sized bed, Cardoso and the others girls have already started. I guess there are worse jobs out there than being a killer. This life is not exactly one worth living.

These kind of jobs are busy work compared to the ones my father gives me that directly correlates with The Family. I consider it a form of training. Each assignment, I grow more knowledgeable and better experienced than I was before. This is who I am, a killer. A choice I made when I thought I had no other option. But it is not my choices who distinguish who I am. It is my commitment to them. And such dedication always comes with some sort of price.

And except for his lack of respect for women, I do not have anything personal against targets like Cardoso who pissed off the wrong people. They never did anything wrong to me, the way other people have all my life. Maybe they are just the ones who have to pay for it.

Cardoso has the attention of a tall, tanned brunette when I walk over to the bed and lay myself next to his head. I begin to whisper dirty things into his ear, and at this moment—with the drug and the girls and his sense of security—I grab the long necklace hanging from my neck which has a spike on the end laced with a lethal poison.

Daringly, I push the brunette over and straddle him. My hands travel all over, but secretly, I am looking for a very specific vein to plunge the spike where the poison will go directly to his heart. With the early, calming, drug in his system from earlier running through his body, he barely notices the pinch when I stab his inner arm.

I get up, grab another girls, tell her something along the lines of shots, and walk out of the room. When we are out of the clear of the guards at the door, I dump the girl and make my way to the security room. I find it, and use part of the silk on my outfit to strangle the single guard watching the monitors. I grab his silenced gun and, before stalk through the house, I shoot the monitors and tear apart the hard drive.

They are not exactly on tonight's menu, but I sometimes you just have to order off the menu. With each body that piles up, I make sure I strip them of their weapons. I dump it all in the pool, and when I am finished combing through the villa, I know Cardoso has only a few minutes left before the poison takes his whole body. He is a rather large man, and I only got a certain amount earlier this week.

And sometimes I like to play with my food.

I wait at the shark tank, and in my moment of free time, I grab a large marker and draw my flames nice and big on the tank.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement up at the balcony next to the tank. I scale the beam with the shadows to hide me. Even though the sun set a long time ago, the lights from the pool and the tank send an eerie vibe through the court yard.

Cardoso swings around to face me. He holds a gun that I know for a fact is stripped of bullets. His eyes are wild, but he recognizes who I am. He cannot stand straight, the drugs almost taking full control. He must realize this, because he points the gun at me and tries to shoot me.

He screams when the gun clicks and no bullets fly.

He screams, "Who are you?!"

I just tilt my head. Finally, I do not have to put up that stupid charade anymore.

"Six," I say in a voice that is stripped of whispers and giggles.

I take a step closer, and he steps back towards the tank.

"What are you? What do you want?"

"It does not matter what I want."

"Whatever they pay you, I can pay more," he pleads.

"Look at it this way," I say, stepping closer and him staggering backwards. "If you had not sinned so badly, then God would not have sent a punishment like me."

He stands with his back against the railing, just above the opening of the shark tank. I bring up my gun and shoot him in the shoulder. The impact of the shot sends him tumbling over the edge and in with the sharks.

Some spots of red from his blood go behind part of my flame, sending it partially ablaze.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>

**The assignment in this chapter was heavily inspired from a scene in the movie **_**Columbiana. **_**That movie was one of the inspirations of this story. I am thinking about changing the rating of this story from T to M. I tried to write this chapter with the mind of a T (and maybe even younger) audience in mind. But this story does have a lot of violence. Let me know what you think. Please review!**

**Be brave, everyone!**

* * *

><p><span><strong>QUOTES<strong>

**1). **_Whatever nightmares you think lay before you are dreams compared to what I come from. –_**Guardians of the Galaxy, film**

**2). **_You think about how you'll escape one day, and how awesome it will be, and imagining that future keeps you going, but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present._** –Looking For Alaska, book**

**3). **_Humans are vulnerable because they are capable of getter hurt._** –Hush, Hush, book**

**Quick side note: The book Hush, Hush has been my favorite series to read this summer. Underappreciated but excellently written series. **

**Congratulations to: Sami (Guest)**

**There are four (television show, television show, person, television show) quotes in this chapter. **


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